


Fragments of Fate and Fire

by Spiced_Wine



Category: TOLKIEN J. R. R. - Works, The Silmarillion and other histories of Middle-Earth - J. R. R. Tolkien
Genre: Erotica, Grief, Incest, M/M, Passion, Rape, Slash, Unresolved Sexual Tension
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2011-10-18
Updated: 2017-10-02
Packaged: 2017-10-24 18:18:36
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 28
Words: 29,949
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/266459
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Spiced_Wine/pseuds/Spiced_Wine
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>A collection of ficlets or gapfillers or flesh out events within my <em>Dark Prince/Magnificat</em> 'verse. Also commissioned artwork.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. ~ A Seduction Written In Stone ~

**Author's Note:**

> Please heed the warnings and rating. This story contains content matter including M/M slash, incest, violence, graphic sex, rape, dub-con and torture.
> 
> Disclaimer: I merely borrow from the works of J.R.R. Tolkien. My stories are written purely for pleasure, and no money is made from them. However the original characters of Vanimórë Gorthaurion, and Tindómion Maglorion, the Dark Prince AU of Tolkiens universe, and the plotlines are © to Sian Lloyd-Pennell. 2004-2011 and may not be used, archived or reproduced without my permission.

Prompt 1. **Seduction.**

Voltaire said that it's not enough to conquer: one must learn to seduce. Write a story or poem or create artwork where seduction plays a central role.

 

 

**A Seduction Written In Stone.**

 

~ The hall lay in muted silver, silent, and the statues of the sons of Finwë stood blind-eyed and proud on their plinths. Nolofinwë had glanced at his brother Arafinwë's, at himself, and now stopped before Fëanáro's. It had been carved before Nolofinwë was born, and the subject had been young, yet their father had shaped the future man. The fire of his name blazed in every marble sinew and sweep of flesh. How long had it taken Finwë to form and polish that great cloud of nightblack hair, the face, with all its arrant pride, the curve of high cheekbone and the sensuous mouth tinted red? Faceted diamonds were set them in the eye-sockets, the only gem save the Silmarilli that could hope to capture the perilous light of Fëanáro's living eyes. The jewels gathered the numinous fall of Telperion, and flamed.  
  
Nolofinwë gazed at the lush, arrogant mouth that he had seen curl with the most blinding of smiles. But not at him, never at him. And he told himself he was grateful for that. Better for his half-brother to be indifferent to him, for Nolofinwë to know beyond any doubt or hope the barrier that existed between them, that there was no way past it. His offense, Arafinwë's offense, was to be born of another woman than Miriel, to have drawn some of Finwë's love away from his eldest son, or that was what they murmured in Tirion. It was not a fault that Nolofinwë could rectify, and one that Fëanáro, it seemed, could not forgive.  
  
“Fëanáro,” Arafinwë had said not long ago at feast. “demands love and fealty, believing it his due, and does nought to earn it. He will never have it from me.”  
  
Nolofinwë returned something noncommittal in response, knowing his eyes gave no hint of his treacherous and frightening thought: _He could demand love from me with my blessing._  
And his brother erred. Fëanáro did love his father and his seven sons with such passion that it was a wonder they could sustain the weight of it.  
  
Turning quickly away, Nolofinwë climbed the curve of shallow stairs to the galley which ran above the hall. Only when he stood above the statues, did he pause again, look down at the grouping which mocked reality.  
  
 _The only safety for me lies in distance from him._  
Because there were some truths that could not be acknowledged, that even the secret heart must flee from.  
  
Fëanáro walked into the hall as silent as a cat. He might have come from his bed, shirt loose at his throat, hair unbraided, cloaking him in massy jet. The silvery light poured over him, seeking for flaws and finding none in his merciless beauty.  
  
Nolofinwë's breath hung motionless in his throat. He had not seen Fëanáro for what seemed like a long time, and each time, the sheer force of him was as a blow. When he came to a halt before the statues, Nolofinwë moved back into the shadow of a pillar. He ought to walk away now, but Fëanáro would notice any movement, and it would feel too much like a flustered retreat.  
  
And he did not see Fëanáro often enough to waste this opportunity.  
  
Fëanáro, he realized, was looking at _his_ likeness. For a long moment he did not move, and Nolofinwë wondered what he was thinking, then he stepped up onto the wide plinth, bringing himself level. He lifted his hands, set them on the marble shoulders, and Nolofinwë thought for a heartbeat that he meant to push the statue over. He did not. With those slim, shapely fingers, he began a slow exploration of the image. He traced the arms, the frozen-stone pour of the hair and Nolofinwë's scalp prickled, his heart enlarging to slam against his ribcage. When Fëanáro cupped his face, he felt radiant heat blossom in his cheeks. A fingertip drew a line down his neck, his breast, to his groin, and he leaned back against the cool solidity of the pillar, its marble no harder than he had become under his breeches.  
  
~~~  
  
 _Yes._ Under Fëanáro's touch, the stone warmed. The merest flick of imagination and this _was_ Nolofinwë, his stern reserve crumbling to reveal all his jewel-bright glory.  
 _Mine._  
  
And Nolofinwë knew it, had always known it. It was his defiance of the taboo attraction between them that glazed him to that famous haughty elegance, and stamped itself into his voice. He was steel and silk and near-perfect control, save when their eyes met.  
The Eldar married young, got children, and then desire faded. This knowledge was passed down as law from Taniquetil. Fëanáro had seen the death of desire in his father's marriage to Indis, in his own, and his half-brothers were rarely in the company of their wives, save on high feast days. Yet Fëanáro knew beyond even the faintest trace of doubt that this creeping miasma of apathy was wrong, that it bled out from Ilmarin like mist and the Eldar breathed the lies until they believed it. But he did not. His blood _burned._  
It burned for Nolofinwë.  
  
 _They say I have no love for him._  
He smiled, fingertips caressing the marble mouth. Let them say it. It would serve his purpose, and be infinitely amusing.  
Leaning forward, he pressed his lips to the statue's.  
 _Mine._  
  
~~~  
  
The air felt liquid. Through it Nolofinwë watched, eyes heavy-lidded, as Fëanáro lips touched his. Insensate marble, yet he _felt_ it. He closed his eyes against the richness of the kiss that broke him and remade him, smashed the defenses he had thrown up against his desire, left his soul naked and burning...  
  
 _...in the fire._  
  
Where he had ever wanted to be, despite denial following denial down the gold and silver years. He plunged into the kiss with a feral growl in his throat, his hands sank through hair, locked on steely muscle.  
  
 _Yes._  
  
Sin. The oldest sin.  
  
 _Yes._  
  
He thrust against Fëanáro, who jerked him closer, and they rode against one another like mating animals. Nolofinwë wanted more, but he thought if he broke that inflammatory contact for one instant he would die of the loss.  
  
 _But I want his skin on mine..._  
  
His fingers slipped metal buttons even as Fëanáro's loosed his, and their shafts rose, thickly engorged with blood. A groan dragged from his lips as Fëanáro wrapped his hand about both, and drew on them – and Nolofinwë's mind whitened to blankness. He clasped his own hand over his half-brother's and stared into his eyes for a moment, their breath mingling, coming more and more harshly, then he slid a hand behind Fëanáro's head and pulled him into another kiss. He was ravenous, and it was matched; there was no gentleness in the joining of their mouths, only the madness of long starvation.  
  
 _Mine._  
  
It was not his voice, that deep purr in his mind. They came apart, gasping in the blue silence, locked gazes drinking from one another as Fëanáro's hand moved slowly, then faster. He watched tension flash over his half-brother's face as the pleasure built, crested, held for a moment, and then, then...  
Fëanáro's arm swept him close, so that his cry of release was muffled in shining hair, in firm flesh, and Fëanáro groaned into his neck.  
  
Nolofinwë's legs trembled. The words breathed into his ear filled an emptiness that had been there so long he did not remember when it formed, only that it had grown to a hollow unassuagable hunger that nothing could sate. Until now.  
  
“Thou wert born to be mine.”  
  
Fëanáro drew back his head and kissed him again, fire-bright, loving, and Nolofinwë closed his eyes again to hold that look, to claim it, to _believe_ in it.  
  
Silence flowed back like idle water. It was quiet, save for his heavy, anguished breathing, and there was no heated flesh against his, no scent of rosewood and musk. He blinked. His breeches were undone, his hand sticky with spilled seed, and Fëanáro stood in the hall below, contemplating Nolofinwë's carven image above him on its plinth. His face was fierce, lovely, unaware.  
  
Very slowly, Nolofinwë backed further into the gallery's shadows, fastening his breeches, his belt. He felt like a youth caught pleasuring himself. Was that what he had done? stood here and slipped into waking dream, a dream that had torn the long denial from his soul and left it exposed.  
Now there was nowhere to hide even from himself. Least of all from himself. The ache, the frustrated desire, the longing, had a name now.  
Fëanáro.  
Who was at best indifferent to him, was his half-brother, and who must never know this black secret.  
  
Nolofinwë pushed back his hair and straightened his clothes, thankful that at this hour, when many rested, the hall was deserted save for they two. He took a breath, another, angry when they caught in his chest, and walked along the gallery, down the steps, to pass his half-brother, because he had to, because he would not slink off into the shadows, and because the look in those lucent eyes would help to kill the unholy lust that even now rose again, imperative and feral in his blood.  
  
And he would not run from that which he feared. The face of the man Finwë had carved was not that of a craven.  
  
Fëanáro did not acknowledge his presence as Nolofinwë crossed the hall. Not until he came abreast did the arrogant head turn with, Nolofinwë decided, calculated insult. Fëanáro had known quite well who approached, and did not choose to trouble himself with courtesies. Nolofinwë met his eyes, made himself hold that brilliant regard, and drove all his resolve into their matched stare, while shame and _ah! need!_ burned like a furnace within him.  
It was too late to say anything. He should have spoken before, a cool greeting; they were publicly polite to one another for their father's sake, but it was very seldom Nolofinwë found himself alone with his half-brother, and now politesse was an insult to what he had dreamed, the desire that had finally demanded he recognize it. The love.  
  
 _Love._  
  
He stopped. Pale air ran between them, and the tiny dust motes burst into stars of purest fire.  
  
 _Is this what love feels like? This impossible, dreadful joy?_  
  
“I have been looking for thee.”  
  
The voice jarred. It was over-loud, an intrusion; it had no place here, no right to break the arc of fire. Nolofinwë spun toward it with fury in his heart. Arafinwë stood staring at him with a strange expression on his face.  
  
“Here am I.” His own words came with practiced calm. He beat back the rage, the guilt, the hunger, forced it under a smooth facade as he walked to his brother, and felt Fëanáro's eyes on his back like a brand.  
  
~~~

  
  
When they had gone, Fëanáro allowed the smile to come.  
  
 _A dream? No, my Nolofinwë, an awakening. Tomorrow I will call to thee, and thou shalt come. Some things,_ and he smoothed his fingers down the beautiful curve of the statue's cheek, _are written in fire, in fate, and in stone._

 

~~~

~~~

**Notes:**

Fëanáro ~ Fëanor.  
Nolofinwë ~ Fingolfin.  
Arafinwë ~ Finarfin.

In [I Will Lead And Thou Shalt Follow: Chapter One ~ A Flame Too Bright,](viewstory.php?sid=40&chapter=1) Fëanor did seduce Fingolfin, and I think it was probably the day after this mysterious seduction.

This is my 'reference' image for beautiful Fingolfin. Unfortunately, I don't know how to give him a mane of thick black hair to his knees, but what struck me on seeing this was that he had the perfect, _perfect_ Noldorin profile and body. Now, every time I see this I think no wonder Fëanor could never resist him. d;-)

 


	2. ~ From Beyond Time ~

Defiance is defined as the willingness to contend or fight. Write a story or poem or create artwork where the characters defy authority in some way.

 _“I broke! Do not deceive thyselves into believing I did not break. I_ defied _, that is all I could do!”_

From [Chapter Nineteen: Magnificat Of The Damned.](viewstory.php?sid=119&chapter=19)

~~~

 **~ From Before Time ~**

He wanted to weep when the opening door broke the dark, because he was not forgotten, he would not be left in this gnawed hole of stone where some-one he could not see cried in the blackness. He did not weep. He had promised himself he would not.

The light-bearer entered, two great orcs following him.  
“No need for force,” the light-bearer said, dry and mocking. “He cannot escape, and our Lord will not be pleased if he is marred by other hands.”

He struggled, felt the tightening pressure of his father's will, a fist about his mind. The tunic tore under iron-hard claws.

“Vanimórë,” Sauron chided stepping across, examining his nakedness. “Learn wisdom. Thou canst not fight. And one does not defy Melkor.”

A long passage coughed itself upward in a series of worn steps and sloping passages. The heartbeat of Angband drummed louder as they passed tunnels and air shafts. The forges were never silent. There was no night, here, no day, only the ceaseless labor of Morgoth's purpose: war.

Vanimórë was stronger than the orcs, but not when clamped by Sauron's power. He was propelled by it, helpless as a child as the roofs arched upward, as the halls opened about him, vast, brutally beautiful, shaped by the power of a god he could not pray to.

Balrogs guarded the throne hall, fires coming alive as Sauron approached. _Daachas.  
Coldagnir._  
Terrible in their burning power, yet Vanimórë feared them less than what waited beyond.

The chamber was cavernous, red light lay like silk on massive, glassy-black pillar and wall, fire-bowls billowing upward in soundless waves.  
Melkor sat naked upon his throne. Chains of red-gold and polished gems hung from his throat, clasped wrist and ankle in wide bands, but all jewels shone dim in the light of the two Silmarilli that blazed on his brow. They made the iron crown a gap of darkness, and screamed fury at all Angband.

The dark Power's eyes shifted from dark to red, to colorless as clear crystal, and beside one raked a slashing scar, slowly fading. Too slowly for a god; Vanimórë had not been born when Melkor met Fingolfin, High King of the Noldor in single combat. Melkor still limped at times from that encounter, but the scar on his face had been delivered by one of the great eagles who had borne Fingolfin's body away from desecration. Yet they lied who said Melkor's fall had destroyed his beauty. It was hard for Vanimórë to truly _see_ him, to look beyond the crushing weight of his power, but now his fear was so bottomless that for a moment he passed beyond it, and beheld magnificence.

The orcs stepped back. Even they were afraid in Melkor's presence.

“Bring him.”

 _I will not show my fear. I will not, I will not..._

Sauron's hand settled on the small on his back, urged him up the river of smooth stone, that seemed to catch him in its current. He could not feel himself walking. His soul was screaming, clawing at the walls of his being, searching desperately to escape. At the foot of the dais, he was pushed to his knees.

Melkor's erection was so engorged that Vanimórë thought he could see it pulse in anticipation of release. He thought he must scream then, fight to escape, for he knew what that organ could do to him, had done. Would do. He could not move. Melkor's eyes knew his thoughts, penetrated him as brutally as his rape. He smiled and raised one hand, the one that forever burned.  
“Come.”

 _No._ Vanimórë strained against the command.

Melkor looked at Sauron.  
And laughed.  
What terrified Vanimórë was the amusement in the sound. It might almost have been indulgent, if power that had shaped Arda in fire and rage could be indulgent. It diminished him, dismissed his identity as a human being, reduced him to a thing.  
 _Thou art nothing,_ the laughter told him. His fears, his frail hopes, destroyed years before, his grief, his ferocious hate and defiance were unworthy of Melkor's notice, beneath contempt.  
 _Come._  
Melkor's hand seized his mind and _pulled._

From a long way away, Vanimórë heard himself panting against the compulsion as he crawled up the steps. His head lifted against the onslaught of power.

“Pleasure me.”

Gold, cut jewels flamed across Vanimórë's vision. The Silmarilli watched, a pair of gemfire eyes.

“He does not know how, Sire,” Sauron's voice, calm, stating a fact.

“Nor didst thou. And like thee, he will learn.”

 _No._  
It was a tiny rebuttal, and lost in the vastness that was Melkor.

“No?” Again the laughter. “Let us explain matters to thy son.”

He did not know the Elven thrall brought in by the great orcs, but he was Noldo of Aman by the light in his eyes. His hair had been sheared away, his only clothing torn breeches spotted with stains and burns. None of it negated his beauty or power; indeed in some way it served to illuminate it, here in the throne-hall of the darkest god.  
His hands were bound, but still he struggled, fought with muscles straining. A ferocious kick sent one of the orcs staggering back, and Vanimórë tensed to leap from the steps and fight at the side of the thrall.

A whip cracked about the Elf's throat, jerking him back, and his hands flew to claw at the constriction. The balrog in the great doorway moved in ember shadows, destroying fires burning into itself. Choking, the prisoner was thrown to his knees, his breeches ripped down, and one of the orcs came behind it, red-black light riming ragged teeth as its mouth widened in an insane, gaping smile of anticipation. The Elf's eyes understood, and horror glared out of them.

Vanimórë screamed. _“No_!”

The cry was swallowed by darkness.

He did not know what to do. He did it nevertheless. The scent of arousal was musky around him and as his his mouth and hands closed over Melkor's erection he tasted spice and fire, rock and hot iron. He swallowed convulsively.

“Thou wilt _not_ defy me.” Melkor's hand closed over his skull, forcing him to take more of the great length. Vanimórë fought, _battled_ against reflexive instinct to gag. If he did, he knew the Elf would be raped, torn apart before the throne.

 _I will._

His soul ceased its despairing struggle to flee. There was nowhere to go. Every path lead back to here. To Melkor.

 _I defy what thou art, the touch of thy hand that despoils and burns, and would make me of none account. I defy thee because I have to. Because I must. I will not weep. I will not show fear. I will_ not...

And _please!_ his soul screamed, trapped in a well of blackness. _Help me! Please!_

It watched as Melkor wearied of his unskilled attentions and pushed him up against the throne. It watched as his face shocked into a mask of agony, his fingers clenched on stone, and pain-sweat streamed like the tears he would not shed. The soul wished it could comfort him when he fell to his knees after, eyes glazed, mind blank with horror.  
It could not help. No-one could.

~~~

He was mightier than any Power that had entered Arda save the one who cloaked himself in the red-riven shadows of Angband. And now, he wept. His time on Earth was not to come yet, would not for thousands of years. He had chosen a strange path, and yet there had truly been no choice at all, for when his Father had shown him Vanimórë, his gallant, tormented life and purpose, he had _loved._ He _was_ Love, all the breadth and magnificence of it, the generosity and sensuality, the lust and the tenderness, and even in the Timeless Halls his beauty cast shadows.  
It always had; the more brilliant the light, the deeper the shadows that gather behind it.

 _Come._ He gathered the battered, terrified soul in his own, cradling it with the utmost gentleness. _I love thee, and no pain, no death, no power will destroy my love for thee. Our time will come, Vanimórë._

He crossed twin blades over the sanctuary, and they blazed white against the Dark. *  


~~~

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Pertains to events in [Weapons of the Gods.](http://efiction.esteliel.de/viewstory.php?sid=139)


	3. ~ I Am ~

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The timeframe of this story is obviously the Void after Melkor's banishment following the War of Wrath, and the second half set a few years after Chapter Nineteen of _Magnificat of The Damned,_ when the Noldor have completed their palaces and mansions in New Cuiviénen.

**Change**  
Some people have difficulty embracing changes and moving on. Write a story or poem or create artwork that shows the consequences of refusing to change.

  
**I Am.**

  
The Silmaril burned in nothingness. If Melkor desired to give the Void definition, shape, reality, he imagined this lost jewel as a star caged by the bars of his thought. And his thoughts ruled the Everlasting Dark. He was still very strong; his banishment here was evidence enough of the Valars' fear. His legions bowed to him, called him a god. He was all, in this place, and he was not finished, not truly defeated.

Yet the Silmaril burned, taunting him with memories. Its light should have failed long ago.

“Why dost thou not fade?” he whispered, his mind circling it like a lash. “There is nothing to illuminate.”

The star burned at him, glorious, mute, defiant.

When the Valar cast Melkor out of the world, he had found light in the Void, where once he had thought to find the wellspring of the Flame Imperishable. Stars shone, pulsing in answer to the Silmaril, this conflagration that would not gutter and die. The stars had no defense from Melkor but their light, and when he plucked at them with stinging barbs of thought, or hurled despair at them like a hammer, they seemed to feed on it, flaring brighter, obdurate in their beauty.

“This is my domain.” He came close to the Silmaril. “Thou art nothing here, less than that. Dost thou not see? One by one they will fail, and thou at the last. Look.”

He showed it the other stars, and each was surrounded by a host of demons, weaving chains about them, chains of blood, grief, guilt, the bitterest knowledge of defeat. The chains became webs, blotting the light.

“They are smothering,” Melkor mused, smiling, and began to forge his own chain about the Silmaril that he could not hold, though he lusted, as he ever had, to take it in his hands, to own it, wield it. All in the Void was his to order, save these outcast stars.  
“They already darken. They will swallowed as if they never existed.”

 _No,_ the Silmaril said.

“Stubborn,” Melkor chided, as each massive link formed. “The darkness does not need light. It is complete in itself. Thou must burn black to exist here.”

_No._   
_I am._

“Thou art nothing.” Melkor laughed, hating, envying. “Thou art a brief candle locked in a vault.”

_I am. And I cannot be other than I am._

Loops of horror snapped about the Silmaril's cage. A prison within a prison within a prison. Melkor's servants hissed and mocked about their own tasks.

_And neither can they._

The stars exploded, shards of malevolence and ridicule, of lies and prejudice spun away like leaves, tumbling into infinity. They turned toward the Silmaril, blazing like white song-fire. Fragments of broken darkness fell from its hands. The Silmaril lifted its head and looked at Melkor, unbowed. Disbelieving, Melkor stared back.

“Thou canst not exist here! Not even thou! Thou art but human.”

“I _am,_ ” Fëanor told him, and Melkor saw the mind-memory of those scrolled lips lift in scorn. “And I _burn._ ” He advanced in gemfire, bodiless now, an element that had no name but his own: Fëanáro, Spirit of Fire, and Melkor, raging, felt the scour of the light against his own incorporeal form. Which was impossible. Nothing could hurt him.  
“I will burn here in the Void with those I love, with those cast here by the Valar, and not they nor thee, fallen one, will _ever_ control _me._ ”

“Thou hast no power here!” Melkor cried, as the wounds that had once marked his living body shrieked phantom protest.

“Hast thou?” Fëanor wondered, sardonic.

“Fool.” Melkor calmed himself with an effort. “Thou art nought here but a last glimmer of madness. Thou wilt fail and fade.”

Fëanor threw back his head and laughed, a rich clean sound amid the howls of the damned.  
“Essay it then,” he challenged. “But know this, Morgoth Bauglir, thou art the one who will fail. Thou canst not defeat _what we truly are._ ”

They descended on him like a mountain of slaughter.

And the Silmaril burned.

~~~

Fëanor turned from the window. The dying sun limned him in a nimbus of glory. When he moved away, it concentrated in his eyes like a burning-glass.  
“Sometimes change is not desirable, nor even possible. I cannot change what I am.” He leaned over the game-board, considered and moved a polished disc. “Had I accepted my banishment to the Void, had I not clung to the past, to those I loved, to myself, I would indeed have ceased to be.” Twin fans of ebony lashes swept up. What need had he of the Silmarilli with those eyes?

“And thou,” he murmured, reaching out a hand. “My beloved sons, six of them, thine own, Fingon, the others who refused to fade, to break. We battled with the essence of _what we were._ To change would have been to perish utterly, to permit Morgoth to wear the rags of our souls as trophies.”

Fingolfin caught his wrist. “That is so, but there can be change now.”

“There is.” Fëanor smiled. “Look.” He walked to the balcony, doors open on this summer evening.  
The palace gardens dropped in terraces of flowers and coloured marble toward Gaear Gwathluin, sparkling copper-gold in the sunset. A skein of swans cut the glowing sky like a leisurely arrowhead. The air was still and warm as if cast in amber. On the shaven lawn below, a milk-white peacock padded lazily, pausing to spread its magnificent tail beside a pool as if admiring its own starry reflection.

“Here is change, freedom, a new life.” Fëanor leaned back on the baluster, lips holding their luscious curl. Fingolfin could not look away. In all this splendor, his half-brother yet drew the eye like a the center-stone of a diadem. The thin lawn of his shirt lay like mist on his hard belly, whispering over sculpted sinew; his hair poured over the white marble like one of the garden's ornamental waterfalls turned to liquid jet.  
“Morgoth could not change me. But I _did_ change in the Dark.”

“Really?” Fingolfin raised his brows skeptically.

“We all did.” Fëanor moved, trailing fingers brushing a pillar; lapis lazuli unfurling through cream, goldstone sparking sinuously within dappled black. His fingers swept on, came to rest on Fingolfin's cheek. He turned his head away.

“What I loved in my first life, I grew to love more deeply. All I had, all _we_ had, were memories, the ever-repeating visions of death. And I clung to them. I had to.”

Fingolfin stared past him into the jewel-colored west. “Yes,” he murmured. “So did I.”

“So, when thou sayest to me, move on, thou knowest I cannot.”

“Once thou didst. In Araman. It was not impossible for thee then.” The loss, the utter betrayal still lay in his soul like a stone.

“Never again.” Fëanor's hands drew his head back, and Fingolfin was startled by the shock of bright pain in his face. And then his body was pressed against his half-brother's, whose lips were at his throat, his jaw, breathing into his own parted mouth. “How could I? The greatest betrayal, the most cruel. _How could I?_ ”

Fingolfin's fingers drove into the tight muscled buttocks, riding against Fëanor's arousal with his own, loosing snatches of words through the ravenous kisses, and giving what he could, a truth that Fëanor had not yet come to.

“They wanted us separated, Manwë, Námo, hast thou not yet realized it?”  
Oh, Eru, to feel Fëanor, so hungry, so violently, wonderfully passionate for _him._ Transcendent sin.  
“ Together, united, we would have made too potent a force, might even have surmounted the Doom.” He gasped and slid one thigh about Fëanor's hip, heard the raging thunder of his heart, the curse.

“For that alone I will see them fall.” Fell, fierce words, a fiercer joining of the kiss, their bodies, striving to be closer, to meld one with the other.

“Thou wert mad with grief and hate – ”

“– I know,” on a groan, a harder thrust.

“In Aman...close enough for them to toy with thee – Ah!”

“ _Never again._ Never again, half-brother, lover, my beauty. _Mine._ ”

Since that day in the statue-hall of Tirion, and in truth long before then.  
 _Since I had a soul to feel, eyes to see, ears to hear...I cannot change what I am..._

“Eru, _no_! I will not – cease!” He pulled away. In a moment, he would come to release, fully clothed, fully roused. One look from Fëanor was enough; his _touch_ was oil on a bonfire...

“Thou wilt drive me mad this time.” Fëanor's voice was shaken to pure emotion. “Thy face, thy body, thine eyes... _No._ ” And Fingolfin's back hit the pillar. “ _No._ ”

And no. No, to the desperate urge of their bodies grinding, bucking together, no to Fëanor's words in his mind, _Thou hast never truly known what thou art to me, what the sight of thee does to me, how it feels to have thee..._ And no to his lips, his hands...But yes.  
 _Yes._

Breeches damp, hair tossed, brows touching, breaths mingling. Slowly, Fingolfin drew away from the hearthstone of his soul. He felt drunk on the wine that was Fëanor. Who drew him back for a last kiss, a distillation of fire.

“I cannot change what I am,” he murmured tenderly. “It would be to leave thee again.” His hand covered Fingolfin's drumming heart. “Never again.”

Fingolfin walked away, taking long breaths of the scented air. At the bottom of the steps, Fëanor called his name. He looked back.

“Tell me truly: didst thou hope I had changed?”

_A world without Fëanor's desire, his magnificent, sinful love._

He lifted his head, saw the appreciative smile at the resumption of their game, and could not answer.

_I cannot change what I am._

~~~


	4. ~ Fear and Fealty ~

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This ficlet was prompted by Tindómion's first meeting with Gil-galad in [Lords Of The Light: The Meeting Of Mithril And Flame.](viewstory.php?sid=43&chapter=26)

**Fear.**

"There would be no one to frighten you if you refused to be afraid."  
Ghandi

Write a story or poem or create artwork where the character conquers his or her fears.

**Fear, and Fealty.**

With every step, the fear grew. Oh, there was anger, and chagrin and embarrassment aplenty, but under all, was fear.

Now he knew why he had always been isolated. He had never questioned it before, looked back on his childhood as a warm, golden time. His father had been slain before his birth, but he was not the only orphan here, and his mother's love was a constant lamp in his life. They lacked for nothing, in that sunny house with its view of the sparkling sea-firth, and he bore a proud name. One day, he would carry it forth into the world, and Gondolin would live again through his deeds. So he vowed, though he was too young to take up arms and join the great war in the north, and fretted like a colt in mating-time. Not long after, a warrior had come to train him. Guessing that Círdan had arranged it, he was grateful. He concentrated fiercely, pushing himself hard, earning cuts and bruises which he bore without complaint. Sometimes his mother came to watch, and he saw her exchange smiles with his teacher.

“Only a battlefield can teach thee more,” the weapons-master told him one winter day, and clapped him on the shoulder, man-to-man.

But the end of the war marked the end of his innocence. He was not, his mother had finally revealed to him, the son of a brave man slain in the attack on the Havens. He was a child of rape, and the blood of the kinslayers ran thick in his veins. He was Tindómion Maglorion Fëanorion, Maglor's ill-gotten son. A bastard.

He had sworn to find his father, perhaps to kill him. It was rumored that he lived, alone of all Fëanor's seven sons, mad and grieving. Well he might!  
And his mother had already placed a barrier in his way of his Oath. Fanari had gone – and this he still could not believe, and cringed with mortification – to the High King and asked that Tindómion might serve him.

“If I desired to serve Gil-galad, I would have gone to him myself, mother.” He knew he sounded ungracious and hated it, for what courage had it taken for her to go before the king and his assembled court and ask such a boon?

“Thou art the son of two great houses,” she had responded. “What then, wouldst thou do?”

“ _Two_ great houses?” he demanded, scornful. “The House of the Pillar and the Tower of Snow, yea, but the House of Fëanor? He brought doom not only upon himself, but all the Elves of Middle-earth, and even Men unborn when he and his sons swore that Oath!”

Tindómion had never met a witness of that infamous Oath, but his mother had, and when she spoke of it, he saw it vivid as fire in his mind. He did not understand her defense of the Fëanorions, or of his murdering, raping father, but he loved her. He could not throw her bravery back in her face by refusing to present himself to the Gil-galad, son of Fingon, grandson of Fingolfin.

 _We are kin,_ he thought bemusedly. _But he has a hero as a father and grandsire._ And, _He will despise me._

“He will not,” Fanari said calmly, when he voiced this. “He is not one who would despise a son for the acts of the father.”

 _My father._  
Fanari said he looked the very image of Maglor, save that his hair was bronze, not black. Tindómion had stared long at his reflection, wishing otherwise, tracing his fingers across his cheekbones and brows, the bow of his mouth. It was a face that held too much haughtier, he thought, as if it were molded into the bones as he grew. And he had nothing to be proud of! He could not even go before Gil-galad as a nobleman should, he protested, accoutered as a lord, with knights in his train. And what had his mother done but brought out the long-kept finery of her flight from Gondolin, and had them taken to a goldsmith to array him?

“I would rather go before the High King in buckram!” he had said.

“Well so would I _not,_ ” she retorted crisply. "For me, and for the memory of so many I loved, thou shalt go before Gil-galad as the Lord of the House of the Pillar and Tower of Snow – and a Fëanorion, a Prince of the Noldor!”

 _I am not a Fëanorion!_ he had wanted to rage, but he knew that, whatever his mother's house, people would indeed view him as Maglor's son, a bastard. He wore one jewel only, the brooch-pin Maglor had given to Fanari at Mereth Aderthad, a silver harp laid across the fireflower emblem of Fëanor. Why? And why did he carry the banner his mother had woven for him, the same insignia with three blazing gems – the Silmarilli – clinging to the harpstrings.

_Because she wanted me to, because, after what she has suffered, I cannot deny her this._

She had looked so proud when he rode away alone, without esquire or servant, but on a fine blood-horse, and richly robed. He had nought to take to the king but himself, and despite Gil-galad's words to his mother, _“We will greet him in kinship and love, Lady Fanari. Let him come and present himself to us,”_ he was afraid. The day was bright, his stallion was fresh and eager, it seemed, to bring him swiftly to the palace.  
Why would the High King accede to such a request? Tindómion was no proven warrior; he did not know the court, or how one comported oneself, and he must enter the great hall alone, with the weight of his heritage, and offer his fealty and his service to a man he did not know.

“And thou knowest him not, either,” he said to his mother.

“I know he was but young when Fingon was slain,” she replied. “I see the loneliness in him. And I do believe he is worthy of thy loyalty.”

No doubt! What stain lay upon him, upon Fingon or Fingolfin, both of whom had died in single combat; Fingon against Gothmog, the mighty balrog captain of Angband, and Fingolfin against Morgoth himself. Had they not expiated their offenses against the Valar with their deaths? But Tindómion's father was a kinslayer, and his was Fëanor, the great madman himself, whose very name echoed with death, with slaughter, with blood. It was a peculiar horror to him, to realize that history was so personal.

He reined in. Leagues away still, the white outer walls and slender towers of the palace rose, banners snapping in the breeze. It looked vast, cold, unwelcoming as he suspected, for all his polite words, the High King would be. Tindómion imagined the look in Gil-galad's eyes on seeing him. There would be disdain, distaste. It was possible he thought that Maglor's bastard son bore watching, or perhaps he was merely curious, wanted to see him, and would send him away after. Let him, then.

_My mother rode this way and faced the king and his court alone. For her sake, I will do no less._

By the time he dismounted in the huge ward, Tindómion's stomach was a nest of snakes, and his hands chill under the butter-soft gauntlets as he handed his horse to a groom. Fanari had told him where to enter the palace, but there was so much busyness here that Tindómion felt overborne and lost. His throat was dry as he passed through an arched gateway into an inner ward, and saw large double doors flung open, guards at the head of the steps. Courtiers in bright clothes passed to and fro, turning their heads to gaze.  
 _I should not have worn the brooch._  
But it was too late. He ascended the shallow steps and took a bite of air.  
“I am Tindómion,” he hesitated, relieved that his voice came steady, but unwilling to use the patronymic.

One of the guards rescued him. He bowed.  
“Thou art expected, my Lord,” he said, and another man came forward from the hall beyond.

“Come, my Lord,” he gestured. “I am to conduct thee to the king.”

My Lord? Tindómion wondered uneasily. Was the title some kind of jest?  
Later, he would admire the palace, the windows of colored glass, the wonderful run of light down walls and pillars where melted gems flowed in frozen patterns. Now, they passed him vague as things seen through shifting water. He could not feel his feet as his guide approached lofty doors faced with the blue and silver crest of House Fingolfin in metal and semi-precious stone. The door-wards here wore the same royal livery and they too bowed.

He could not run now.

_I should have refused to come. It was not a command, after all._

The great hall was silent as he entered. A great window poured jewel-tints across the tiled floor, catching the flicker of silk and gems. It seemed to Tindómion as if the people gathered there drew back like stately dancers for him to approach the dais, where Gil-galad sat. Tindómion had seen the High King once from a distance, when he was a child, and remembered him, but to see him now...

He never remembered crossing the chamber. Something like music sounded in his mind, and the coldness melted from him in a rush of pure fire. The High King rose.

 _Oh Eru._ Gil-galad was glorious, pearly flesh, ebon hair, and the flame of star-blue eyes. There was no despite in that beautiful face, no derision. As the gap closed between them, a flush dusted the high cheekbones, and Tindómion stared at the luscious mouth as it parted to say his name.  
“Tindómion Maglorion.”  
A flutter of murmurs from the court. A flash of the blue-silver eyes that quashed them.  
“I knew thy father, and I grieve for him.”

Thought, fear, both had sluiced away. Tindómion heard nought but sincerity in the clear voice that plucked at his heart.  
“My Lord,” he responded, as if he had waited from his birth to say it, “I would offer thee my fealty, my sword, my body, and all my service.”

A hand came to rest on his shoulder. He felt it through cloth and flesh and blood.  
“I accept it gladly, son of Maglor Fëanorion.” Giving him the patronymic he would not use himself.  
Gil-galad's lips touched his brow, his cheeks.

“I am honored.” He did not know what he was saying, only that relief was bearing him up like the sea, leaving him both weak and exultant.

 _I misjudged him._ This man would not have summoned him to indulge in petty malice or mockery. And if others looked him askance, they were as nothing beside the king's acceptance.

“I hope thou wilt be my friend Tindómion,” Gil-galad smiled, touching his arm. “Come, sit with me. Thou art a Knight Companion now, for I name thee such, and thou shalt dwell in the palace close to me.”

His hand moved to rest on Tindómion's back, leading him through into the adjacent feast-hall, to a chair immediately upon his left. The air was full of stars and fire as Gil-galad proferred his own winecup, and those eyes were on his, holding them in a grip like steel, as Tindómion pledged him. He was claimed as he returned the goblet and Gil-galad drank.

~~~

 _Ah, Eru,_ Tindómion was magnificent. All the charismatic glamor of the Fëanorions lived again in the young man that walked through the doors. He was belligerent, uncertain, ready to face antipathy, but still he came.

Their eyes met, and it was done. The arc of fire blazed again, that doomed and fated love, beyond policies, beyond laws, stronger than life, more enduring than death.

 _I was waiting for him._ Gil-galad smiled into eyes silver as polished metal. He wanted to slip his hands into that flaunting mane, draw the Fëanorion to him, then and there, before his court, his court who looked on such unions as a sin punishable by death and damnation.

_Does he feel it?_

Tindómion's was flushed and radiant. When food was set before him he did not eat, drank but little save when Gil-galad offered him the loving-cup.

 _Would he fear it?_  
Had the Fëanorions truly feared anything but the failure to fulfil their oath?

_I need to know._

But Tindómion was yet young, and had been thrown into a situation quite outside his experience. Had the welcome he clearly did not expect to receive account for his appearance of intoxication? Gil-galad hungered to touch him, and found himself lightly brushing his sleeve or hand to emphasize his words, but the Fëanorion, although he turned toward him, did not reciprocate.

“Wilt thou stay, this night?” he asked as they rose, the court leaving to enjoy the spring dusk. “I will send a message to the Lady Fanari to tell her thou art here.”

“I thank thee, Sire, but I must speak to her myself. I – ” He paused.

“Yes?”

“I thought I would be despised for my blood.”

“Yes, so I saw when thou didst enter the hall.” Gil-galad lead him back into the now empty chamber. “But surely the Lady told thee that thy welcome was assured?”

“She did Sire, but...” And then, with a forthrightness that was all Fëanorion, “Why? I have nought to offer thee but myself, and my father...his bloodline...”

“Was the greatest this world has ever seen. And as for what thou hast offered me, I will take it right willingly. _All_ of it.”

Tindómion looked thoroughly shaken. The sun had gone down, and no lamps were lit in the great hall now. The dimness isolated them, drew them together.

“Thou doth truly want me, Sire?”

“I want thee.”

Was Tindómion too innocent to hear the double-meaning in the words? Perhaps, yet he did move then, to take the High King's hand and kiss his ring of kingship. Gil-galad forestalled him, moving his fingers under the firm chin and lifting it.  
“We are kin, thy blood as high as mine. Our kisses are thus, coz'...” Holding Tindómion's face, he kissed his brow. “And this...” The scrolled mouth stirred, parted under his. Gil-galad heard the soft, startled gasp, and drew back before temptation utterly overturned him.

_Perhaps he does not favor men, and this runs all one way._

“Sire, I am honored.” Tindómion bowed. “I beg thy leave to depart.”

“Depart then, to return to me for thy ceremony of allegiance.”

_And yet, can it be this powerful and he feel nought?_

Tindómion turned, then quickly swung back, as if daring himself or testing his own courage, and returned the kisses, one on Gil-galad's brow and one, after an infinitesimal pause, on his lips. It lasted but a moment, even as a shooting star does, and Tindómion was breathing hard when he stepped back, whirled and strode away. Gil-galad walked to the throne and sat, tipping back his head.

 _I have ruled, I have fought, I have grieved – ah, I still grieve! I have friends, and sometimes I have laughed with them, but until thou, Tindómion Maglorion Fëanorion, walked into this room, I did not_ live.

~~~


	5. ~ 'I Will Give Thee Myself' ~

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Maglor cannot forget the dead.
> 
> Or the living.
> 
> This was prompted by [Dark Prince: Chapter Twelve ~ The Darkness Has Its Own Light,](viewstory.php?sid=27&chapter=12) and [Chapter Sixty-five: A Cry In The Night.](viewstory.php?sid=27&textsize=0&chapter=65)

Write a story or poem or create artwork that will illustrate the consequences of isolation.

**“I Will Give Thee Myself.”**

One forgets how to speak, when there is no-one to talk to but the dead. But the dead understood without need for words.

Sometimes when Maglor woke he found the shells of oysters, mussels or fish-bones, a dead fire. There might be a dead rabbit or grouse beside him, and the shadow of a great hawk passing over. Surely Celegorm, to whom the eagles and peregrines would come as to a lover, had sent them. Maglor smiled his gratitude, and Celegorm, with his cloud of creamy hair, flashing gems, and cruel, sensual mouth, kissed him. Amrod and Amras would bring him a gralloched deer. Curufin mended his weapons, Caranthir brought down wolf and bear, cured the skins, and Maedhros sparred with him; he must not become lax, for the lands were dangerous. After, Maglor would take Maedhros' right hand in both of his, and the returned clasp was strong, warm. Fingon was with him at these times, and the two of them shone. Then Fingolfin was there, all refined steel beauty, saying nothing, but embracing, supporting, understanding. They had always understood one another.

Maglor did not know why they left him, why he would blink and find himself alone, with the gulls lamenting, the sea summer-soft or winter-wild.  
For a long time, his left hand burned with the mark of the Silmaril that had rejected him, but one night his father came out of the stars, lifted the scarred palm to his mouth, and the pain faded. Maglor clung to this vision. Fëanor's sumptuous perfume, the warm silk cloud of hair, the hard fire of his body, was _real_ , and was no guilt in this dream, no shame. He held and was held, and wept out the grief of loss, realizing how, over the years, the tears had fallen internally, how rarely he had been able to release them.  
He did not want his father to leave him, but he did. They all did, but when Maglor woke, the silvery scar no longer throbbed.

There was a time he remembered singing to the restless sea. Not any more. It never answered.

It was chill at whiles, the trees were bare, and he rested in caves or under woven shelters. There was heat, days when the scent of salt and flowering gorse was heavy as incense in the air. Winter or summer, the dead came. He vowed he would not die and lose them, for he knew where they had gone, not to the shadowy Halls of Waiting, but further yet, to the no-place of the Everlasting Dark. If he died too, he would relinquish even memory. And so, he promised them he would live, even if he was not sure that he was indeed alive.

There was a time when he thought the air grew warmer, and the scent of herb and flower was subtly different. The sun fell hot on his bare head, and the tide-pools he walked were warm as a bath. And the dead walked with him. They were with him when the host of warriors came riding, gold-skinned men whose speech seemed made of words he once had known, and the copper reek of blood hurtled him back into war. The dead could not help him when a weighted net was flung over him, but they stayed with him on that long journey in a wagon. The men did not touch him, averting their black-rimmed eyes as they held water and food to his mouth. At night, when they camped, he fitted their words together like a puzzle, and began to fear.

Later there were mountains, black and sharp, crumbling obsidian teeth, and a gate that seemed to bar the fuming sky. There were orcs here, large, armored creatures who pinched and cuffed and spat, conveying him onward to the tower. No Man had built this colossus. Power washed against his face in hot waves.

The dead...He would not let them go, through the mockery, through the agony, the rape, the assault on his mind.

“They are dead. Thou art mad, and alone, and thou art broken.”

 _No._ They were his. They were all he had.

And one by one, Sauron took them away.

He was mad. He was alone.

There was a dream in the fugue of darkness and somehow it brought Maglor to the greatest despair. He saw himself as a youth, running toward his father. There was something dreadful behind him and all around, a force of terror that clawed at his back. Only with Fëanor would he be safe, he knew this as a child knows, and when threw himself against his father's breast, the peace was immense and absolute. He could sleep now, and nothing would breach the haven that was Fëanor's arms.

Fëanor smiled, holding him, and his eyes closed, which seemed strange to the young Maglor. He realized, with fatalistic horror that his father had gone far away, was unreachable. With love in his face, in the curve of his mouth, he held Maglor, oblivious to the darkness that reached once again. Fëanor was here, embracing him, impotent and insensate as stone. There was nothing behind the face.

That was the terror: that the one person he knew could protect him, truly could not, and slept on beatifically as Maglor was dragged away...

 _No!_  
He struggled from horror, panting.  
A lamp burned soft in the room. There came the sound of liquid pouring, a cup was pressed gently against his lips, and a hand drew back his hair. He sipped, swallowed wine. The hand rubbed his back, firm and gentle, and a voice murmured reassurances. When the wine was finished, and lay fiery-soft in his stomach, Maglor sank back to the pillows.

He was still mad, he thought, though the dead had left him now (save his father's eyes.) They were gone and he lived, unwillingly at first, hating the one who had drawn him back, hating himself for being unable to resist what the man offered, this thrall who had shown him that the deepest darkness could be illuminated.

“I am no-one,” the Elf had said. “I am nothing.” Then, later, “I am a slave of Sauron. I cannot break the bonds upon my spirit, but within those bounds have a certain amount of freedom. He is gone, and I cannot foresee his return. No-one here will touch thee.” A smile. “No-one but I.”

And he had.

Sinewy arms drew him back against a taut, naked body. He stiffened for a moment, while the rich voice whispered. Maglor was healed in body; he had watched the marks fade each time he bathed. His weakness was not physical. He had fought, and it was not superior strength that defeated him, it was...this, this _giving,_ this comfort.

Red light glowered at barred windows in a room he knew was very high up in the monumental fortress of Sauron, Morgoth's greatest servant. Below seethed legions of orcs, Men, and darker things. Beyond, ashen plains stretched league after league to the black-toothed mountains and the vast gate. Maglor was pinned like a moth in the heart of Sauron's domain. And he slept like a child.

This dream did not bring fear.

 _He is not all there is._ Fingertips gliding over his face, through his hair, lips against his, stamping a pattern of kisses down his throat, his chest, his stomach, to his groin. Whispers of praise. _I will show thee, and show thee, again, and again._

Dark light, purple eyes, a sinful mouth that worshiped every part of him that Sauron had abused, as if the thrall sought to imprint himself over the tortures. Here, where the flesh had broken, here where bruises had dappled and spread, angry blood-blossoms; here, where rope had scored him, and...and...he arched, stiffened, mouth parting, _here_ , where Sauron had driven into him...

Here...but not _here,_ not this deep, hidden place that the thrall's shaft nudged with each thrust. There was no word for it; pleasure, bliss, ecstasy, all were pallid attempts to describe something that could only be _felt._

_Yes, beauty, feel it. Thou art magnificent!_

And the thrall forged glory from degradation, from torment. Maglor fell through the thunder of an orgasm so deep it seemed to drain his very blood. When he woke, his head rested on a hard chest. He pushed himself away. He always did. The thrall leaned on one arm, reached out with the other. Maglor caught his wrist. A rueful smile curled the lush mouth.  
“There is no shame in accepting comfort,” he murmured.

Was there not? From a self-confessed slave of Sauron? What Elf would ever willingly serve the Dark? And yet, Maglor had accepted the tending of his body, the food and wine. He had come so close to death, but the desire to live had been forced on him by this slave, who had no right to choose for him, to seduce him, to make his body respond with such lust that he could think of nothing else. In _this_ place.

The days seemed interminable, intolerable. He was alone then, the door locked behind him, alone with his recovered sanity and its twin, anguish. The first time, still weak, he climbed to the barred window, looked out at distant mountains, then down onto the flattened angles of tower and buttress and steaming vent, the immensity that was Barad-dûr. The sky was darkening when the thrall returned, and Maglor was glad, and ashamed of his relief. As he gained strength, he prowled from bedchamber to bathing room, to the antechamber, the study with its wide desk and hanging maps, books and scrolls.

He dreaded and longed for the evenings. Whatever servants brought the food, the wine-skins, they were never allowed beyond the outer room, and the meals became a time of awkward intimacy. The food was simple enough, although there were surprises, fresh fruit, honeycomb, fine wines. Maglor did not ask, would not speak, but the thrall told him the fruits came from the great slave farms in the south, around the bitter lake of Nurnen, the wine from Dorwinion, to the north.

“Sauron eats and drinks, and demands the best.”

Maglor learned of Sauron, of the Age that had passed him by while he wandered, of the great island nation of Númenor, whose king had landed in force upon the shores of Middle-earth and taken Sauron captive. The thrall was sharply intelligent as a dagger, his knowledge wide-ranging, his talk engaging. Once, how long ago? Maglor would have enjoyed his company. Once...

 _They have been dead so long..._  
It took him in the gut like a fist, sometimes, and the world weighed heavy, impossibly empty. The thrall saw it. He saw too much.

Maglor resisted, fought, but his body and soul both were traitors.  
Sometimes their food went all but untasted. Once, Maglor picked up a piece of honeycomb, then reached to dip his sticky fingers in a laving-bowl. The thrall captured his hand and took each finger in his mouth, sucking off the sweetness. Moments after and the rugs brushed rough under Maglor's back. Books fell from the table in the study; he lifted himself by the window bars, wrapping his legs about the thrall, impaling himself and panting, hungry, desperate. Anywhere, everywhere. The thrall lavished seduction and sex upon him, devoured and drank him and took him to a place of fire where pain and pleasure were two heads on the same coin. Maglor did not know himself, could not believe after, what he had been a part of.

“Beautiful,” the thrall would purr, a hand tangling in his hair, the other cupping his buttocks, backing him against the bed, a wall, a door, the table, “Beautiful Maglor...I want thee, now.”

As he grew stronger, their battles became more violent. He was strong, this slave, as skilled in body-combat as any Maglor had known. They were well matched, but the onslaught of sensuality was irresistible.

“Thou art a feast.” He nuzzled into Maglor's stomach, and Maglor, shockingly, felt he could laugh, before the kisses tracked across to his hip and sharp teeth bit delicately, and so down, down to his cock, rigid and pearled. A feast, but so was he. Maglor had tried to avoid looking at him, tried and failed, for whom else was there here? and he was not the past, not the dead, not orc, not Sauron. He was the _now_ , and filled it with the beauty of his face, the brilliance of his strange eyes, the dangerous power of that wonderful body enhanced, rather than marred, by the slashing tattoos that swept up his arms, over his shoulders, down his back. Maglor rarely saw the latter, or the glaring Eye at the base of his spine, his slave mark, for the fall of raven hair covered him to his knees like a cloak. But when he twisted it loosely over one shoulder to reveal tight buttocks, and long, long legs, Maglor stared, his manhood filling, until the thrall looked around, flashing the smile which promised sex – and fulfilled the promise.

A thrall who bore himself like a king, who loved like a storm, who held him when he slept. Maglor felt he should know him, wanted to ask who he was, but what did he need to know? This man served the dark albeit, Maglor thought, unwillingly. The brand of the Eye was no mere decoration; heat poured forth from it. There was sorcery at work here, and Maglor wanted to believe it was sorcery that demolished his will to fight the thrall's seduction. But that would have been a lie.  
He needed it.

“Thou wilt never forget the torment,” the thrall said, and his eyes were serious then, even tender. “But I will give thee something else to remember, beauty.”

_I will give thee myself._

And he did.

Isolation had been madness. Now, isolation was these chambers in the heart of darkness; it was a striving of bodies, tangled hair, mouths meeting. After, when Maglor trembled, limp and spent, the thrall would caress every part of him until sleep came. He was the most generous and unselfish of lovers; he might have spent his life learning all the skills of the bedchamber to unleash them here, upon Maglor.

“Think of me, only of me. Let us forget him, together.”

It should have been impossible to forget Sauron and what he had done, and of course it was, but slowly, the thrall began to tip the balance. Everything had been Sauron, pain, death. As the days passed the thrall, his unrelenting assault of passion, became all there was. It was as if he waged a war against Sauron, against what had been done to Maglor, with sex. But it was more than sex, this voluptuous largesse, more than lust. He was indeed, giving himself.  
Maglor did not want him. He had not asked for it, had felt himself releasing his hold on life, and this man, a slave, had denied him that choice. (Ah, and there was the shame! Maedhros had not died of his long imprisonment and abuse.)

“Thou has been alone,” the thrall whispered. “I know. I know how it feels. Death must seem so tempting. But do not die at _his_ will.”

Each day, Maglor fed the fires of his resentment. There was no logic in hating one who had saved him, but what place had logic in his life? In a logical world, a world where any fairness existed, his father and brothers would be alive, his uncle and cousins. They were not. The world was as insane as he was.  
He told himself he would not yield, not this time, and when the outer door closed, when he knew the thrall would tread soundlessly into the chamber, Maglor tensed for the fight. And every night he was defeated, by the nameless _no-one,_ by his own appalling need.

After, free, he became obsessed, swore to find the thrall, kill him for what he had done, for giving him light in the darkness, for forging a bond in those isolated chambers that Maglor could not break. He told himself he had been used and discarded, had been a plaything of evil, that his will to live or die had been ignored, more, dismissed as irrelevant. What was the truth? He never knew. Perhaps he wanted some-one to blame for his wretched, bootless existence, and the thrall had certainly ensured his survival. He was no longer a crazed wanderer who spoke to the dead on lonely shores. He was Maglor, second son of Fëanor, warrior and bard. The fire he thought lost had only slumbered; the thrall had fanned it to life with every desperate, furious coupling, every touch, every fulminous look.

And now, he was so close, after thousands of years, waiting in a town of Men on a clear Northern lake. Sauron had been defeated, but the thrall still lived, as he had lived in Maglor's mind and blood for thousands of years.  
Three nights he had been here and felt nothing. Now he did. He rose, went to the door of the room, opened it. Sounds of conversation, laughter, the clink of tankards and platters washed up the stairs from the inn's common-room on a wave of ale, wine, roasting meat. _And the scent of sandalwood._  
 _His_ scent.

Maglor walked silently to the top of the stairs, and a hanging lamp cast its glow over his face. Good, he wanted the thrall to _see_. One hand folded about the hilt of his sword, and his heart jolted, began to thunder in his breast as a shadow moved below, set one foot on the bottom step – and looked up.

Maglor's world slowed, stopped. The thrall, his own face limned by light, smiled, as if he had always known this moment would come.

~~~


	6. ~ Fire Touching Fire ~

Greed is good! Write a story or poem or create artwork that will prove or disprove this statement.

  
**Fire Touching Fire.**  
  
  
  
 _Thou doth want everything!_  
  
 _But there is so_ much _to want!_  
  
  
  
~~~  
  
  
  
“Here is glory...peace...here thou hast attained the perfection and purity of body and spirit that those in the dark lands will never know...”  
  
Fëanáro stretched his legs, his eyes fixed unwinkingly upon Manwë whose peroration on these occasions had ever followed the same path. All in white like his icy spouse, the Vala raised his hands palm down, closed his eyes.  
  
“Yet there is a darkness here, children!”  
  
 _Darkness? No, really? Who released Melkor? I wonder if thou didst truly believe he was changed. I do wonder...Art thou obtuse?_  
Fëanáro's last meeting with Melkor had been...illuminating.  
 _Oh, Eru I am going to laugh!_  
The disgraced Vala might have been humbled, but if his nature had been changed by three Ages of imprisonment, Fëanáro would never trust his instincts again. Melkor, like Fëanáro himself, was merely biding his time until he could escape. Were the Valar not aware of that either, or simply confident that whatever his plans, their former brother was powerless?  
  
 _He is not; he hides it, and rather well._  
  
Fëanáro had made an enemy there, but had Melkor really believed he would lie down for him, accept him as overlord, for _anything._  
  
 _I will make mine own empire in Endor. I will not take the crumbs from his table._  
Nor did he think there would be any. Fëanáro remembered his half-brother's words: _“Thou doth_ want _too much!_ ” and was willing to concede that, but because he wanted so much, he could also see very clearly that Melkor wanted yet more.  
  
 _Children._ The word tugged him back to Manwë. It was an increasing wonder that there were any children in Valinor, with every marriage silting into either friendship or estrangement, even his own.  
  
“We feel it...base lusts we delivered thee from...Ingratitude...rewarded with sorrow...duty is owed...”  
  
Fëanáro closed his ears. He had heard it many times before; every-one here had. The Vanyar indeed sat like good children. Ingwë, who outranked even Finwë, wore a diadem of sapphires that were put to shame by cobalt-blue eyes. A pity that he should be as vacuous as he was stunning. High King of all the Elves, Ingwë, who probably took even his thoughts to Manwë and Varda to be approved. Finwë liked him however, and one wondered what manner of man he had been when the Quendi walked in the Outer Lands. Now, those eyes might have been made of the coloured glass they so resembled. How different another pair of eyes, fierce as the blue ice Fëanáro had once seen in the North. Laurëfindë sat as far from his father as was possible, close to Turukáno's house with his own people about him.  
  
 _Manwë knows why Arafinwë disowned his second son, I wager. Yet he is all roundaboutation, forcing us to listen to veiled threats and what is, in actual fact, the poison of a cramped little mind._  
  
Laurëfindë sat spear-straight, his molten hair caught back in formal braids under a circlet of white-gold set with celandines of yellow topaz. He had told Fëanáro, in one of their rare relaxed moments together, that his brother Findaráto had given him the name _Golden Flower,_ and that he bore it with pride.  
  
 _As well thou might, and I would not expect lovely Findaráto to abandon thee,_ Fëanáro thought now, watching Laurëfindë's stern face as Manwë talked on. The words, _unnatural acts_ hissed forth.  
  
 _At least have the courage to say it plainly. Thou shalt not ride another man as a stallion mounts a mare._ He stared at Laurëfindë, watched him shift slightly in his seat. He looked furious, delightfully so. _Thou shalt not find exquisite pleasure in that tight, gripping heat, that wonderful body writhing under thee, and begging to be taken deeper, harder..._  
  
Laurëfindë's eyes snapped to his across the chamber, and a flush unfurled across his cheekbones. Fëanáro stifled a laugh. His nephew did not love him, but after that first time, (and yes, he had been rough, he admitted, had allowed his desires to build for far too long.) he responded with wondrous passion. There was something unusual about Laurëfindë, quite apart from that spectacular mane of hair, but although he had refused to be cowed by the Laws of the Valar and his father's disgust, he had wavered, needed some-one to ignite his slumbering golden fires, and now he _burned._  
  
 _Uncle, stop it._ Brilliant eyes admonished him.  
  
 _But it is irresistible. And I fear I may go to sleep unless I entertain myself. Or we could entertain one another, and this extremely tedious gathering._  
  
There came a flash of scandalized amusement, a surge of desire, before Laurëfindë studiously looked away. Fëanáro laughed internally, and with appreciation. He wanted Laurëfindë not only as a lover but as one of his chief captains when they departed Valinor. The time was almost ripe. Laurëfindë had refused once, saying that he was bound to Turukáno, his friend since childhood, whom had not withdrawn his friendship after Arafinwë's renunciation. He would not, he declared, compromise Findaráto by joining his household, though his elder brother had asked him to.  
  
 _I need him, and those like him._ The best, the strongest, the most courageous.  
  
“I would suggest, my lord, that thou doth heal the...rift between thyself, Nolofinwë and Arafinwë,” Laurëfindë had said, “and then thou wilt be assured we will _all_ follow thee.”  
  
Fëanáro laughed inwardly at those words.  
“Nolofinwë will follow me.”  
  
“Thine enmity is well known.” Laurëfindë had looked puzzled at his assuredness.  
  
 _Yes, it has to be well known._ Fëanáro glanced to where Nolofinwë sat with his children. In silver and sapphire, he looked remote and beautiful as a star, hands laid in his lap. The finest blue-white diamonds shone above his brow; the circlet Fëanáro had made for his coming-of-age. He did not recognize it until later, but it was 'prentice work for his Silmarilli; he had subconsciously tried to capture the light of Nolofinwë's eyes.  
  
“I know thou hast no time for thy half-brothers,” Finwë had said. “And, Eru! I try to understand thee, though thou art wrong in this. But it would please me if thou didst gift Nolofinwë richly on that day. It would mean much to him.”  
  
“Would it?” Fëanáro mused, who had not seen Nolofinwë in some time. He had shrugged. It was true he had no interest in the children of Indis. Even at the time of his father's second marriage, he had thought the Vanyar puppets of the Valar, repeating their lessons dutifully, living lives of placid obedience. He believed Indis would influence Finwë, repressing a once passionate and powerful man, and that her sons would inherit Vanyarin traits. He had been wrong, he thought, it was not something that devolved from the Vanyar, but the Valar, and the Vanyar were simply the first to be affected, close as they were. He had shrugged and acquiesced out of love for his father, and when he presented Nolofinwë with that circlet, his half-brother's eyes had glowed more brightly than the diamonds, and just that wonderful colour. A pivotal day, that had been, for Nolofinwë was almost grown into the man whose statue stood in the palace hall, and Fëanáro's reaction had been so strong it startled him, forcing him to battle an inappropriate arousal, and conceal his emotions behind brusque disinterest. All the joy drained from Nolofinwë's exquisite face, leaving him, in the midst of his own celebration, seeming oddly lost and alone. Fëanáro made himself turn away, but the wounded beauty drew his eyes back like a magnet, and fire touched fire.  
  
It was always the way, though now Nolofinwë had much practice in artifice, and could adopt a look of cool marble. Less so could Findekáno, who might have been his father's twin, and gazed openly, hotly defiant, at Maitimo. Seated at Fëanáro's right, his eldest son was trying – and failing – to appear unaffected, but was in fact roused. The formal robes donned for these interminable events did have some uses, Fëanáro reflected.  
His thought, deliberately audible to Maitimo and Findekáno, evoked a tiny sound. Maitimo slid one a shapely hand over his mouth, and Findekáno's star-coloured eyes laughed, unrepentant.  
  
 _Fire touching fire..._  
  
It was easy for Fëanáro to recognize those in whom the flame was kindled; they blazed like torches. Did the Valar see it also, hence Manwë's monologue? The tiered stone seats curved, and Fëanáro did not have to move to see Tyelkormo on his left, beyond Macalaurë. His fair son's beringed fingers tapped arhythmically on the stone arm-rest, so that the gems caught the light in flickering bursts. The other hand supported his chin as he gazed across toward Arafinwë's clan, but he was certainly not looking at Arafinwë, who was apparently absorbed with the sermon. Who then? Findaráto? Was it? Yes. Tyelkormo's silver-black eyes were fixed on Arafinwë's eldest, and the jewel-flashes from his rings seemed to be sending distracting messages, because Findaráto had lost all interest in Manwë's speech, if he had ever had any. One could never tell with that one, his face was as molded enamel, gorgeous and enigmatic.  
  
 _Lovely, but no meat of thine, my son._  
  
Findaráto had long been betrothed to Amarië, and it was possibly the longest betrothal ever known in Valinor. Quite suddenly, that gave Fëanáro pause, and he considered his nephew, Arafinwë's perfect son. There was a great deal that was similar in looks between Tyelkormo and Findaráto, the same hair that only showed its creamy hue when set next to the pure white of Ingwë's, the same fine features and lush-scrolled mouths all Finwë's blood had inherited. But there was far more kindness in Findaráto's blue eyes and serene smile than his cousin's predatory gleam, and their natures were wholly opposite. Tyelkormo's smouldering intensity in that unexpected direction was intriguing.  
  
 _He knows something I do not._  
  
Fëanáro thought of Arafinwë's unbending antipathy toward he and his sons; that Arafinwë guessed at his relationship with Nolofinwë was all but certain, but perhaps he also feared other entanglements. Ah, he would be incensed if he thought Tyelkormo attracted to Findaráto. Some extremely salacious tales were whispered of Fëanáro's third-born, and his father believed them. It was even rumored that he had seduced Oromë. Well, Oromë was certainly very different to his brethren, with his wild eyes, braided hair and hunter's garb of doeskin. Very different indeed, if the tale held any truth.  
  
Findaráto's eyes rose almost guiltily from where they had been examining the floor, and when he found himself observed by both father and son, a wave of rosy color climbed to his hairline. His blue eyes, twin to Laurëfindë's, lost their coolness.  
  
 _Fire touching fire._  
  
Tyelkormo's mouth curved into a faint, satisfied smile.  
  
And then there was Macalaurë, so close on Fëanáro's left that he could have reached out and touched the high cheekbone.  
  
 _I love all my sons, but thou art my song._  
  
Macalaurë's head turned, and those eyes, silver shadowed dark by long lashes, held a trapped, fuming expression.  
  
 _My fault,_ Fëanáro admitted, _Now he is ill-at-ease around me, but he trembles at a touch, a smile._  
  
His son's fine hands flattened on the shared arm-rests as if to still their shaking. Tyelkormo slanted him a quick look, and settled his own glittering fingers over one hand, gripping hard. He was a complex creature, Tyelkormo, the fey, untiring hunter when with Oromë, the effete hedonist in Tirion. Yet he understood.  
  
 _Manwë makes all natural human desires sound vile, filthy appetite of crooked minds._ Fëanáro lifted his chin, stared all the depth of his scorn at the Elder King and took Macalaurë's other hand in a firm clasp. _He does not know, cannot imagine, the glory of it._  
  
He rose then. Every eye turned to him, and at last Nolofinwë's.  
  
 _Fire touching fire._  
  
As calmly as if he were in a chamber in Tirion, and as arrogantly as if he ruled Valinor, Fëanáro walked out. And his sons followed him in the most complete silence that hall had ever known.  
  


OooOooO

Miriel's garden it was called, this quiet garth where no-one came any longer save her son, and Nolofinwë. There was a small room looking out onto untended flowers, a tier of waterfalls. A sad place it might have been, but Fëanáro did not think it so; he imagined his parents had been happy here. And it was ideal for his purposes. No place in Tirion or its environs was absolutely private, but this was close enough.

 

Nolofinwë rested his head on his hand. These times came too rarely, peace after the headlong fall into passion, when Fëanáro was relaxed, and there was a softer light in those remarkable eyes.

“ _Mine,_ thine eyes said in Ilmarin, as they looked at Laurëfindë, at me, at Macalaurë. I told thee thou doth want too much.”

“I love watching thee in public,” Fëanáro teased, all gleaming mischief. “I always wager with myself on how long it will take before thou wilt look at me, so beautiful, so haughty, when I know what thou art like with me.”

“And, as they would say in Alqualondë,” Nolofinwë strove to subdue a fresh flowering of heat in his loins. “thou doth sail too close to the wind. Thinks't thou the Valar do not know of this?”

“They are not our masters.” A different light flared at that. “And it is none of their business.” Their lips met, and it was wine and flame. “Forget them. Soon we will be gone.” He moved like a great cat, laid his body across Nolofinwë's and rocking against him. “I want thee.”

“Thou doth want everything!” Fire exploded across Nolofinwë's vision, and his sex was iron-hard as it slid against Fëanáro's.

“I know,” Fëanáro breathed into his mouth. “But there is so _much_ to want! The most brilliant, the most courageous, the most beautiful. And always thou, my brother, my lover.” His lips smiled. “My blue diamond. My Nolofinwë.”

“Thou art greedy.” But the gasp tore into a moan of hunger, and delighted laughter underlay it.

“For thee, always. But I covet more...” He raised himself, straddling Nolofinwë's hips. “Think of it, thyself, our glorious Laurëfindë, and my son. All of thee, together...like this. And thou wouldst revel in it.”

A frisson ran liquid fire through Nolofinwë's body. It was an outrageous, wicked image. _And magnificent._  
“Thou wouldst have us all!” He tried to move, impatient, desperate.

“Yes, my beauty. One day.” Fëanáro dropped onto hands and knees, drowning Nolofinwë in a cloud of black hair and white desire. “One day, thou wilt _all_ be mine.”

 

 

~~~  


**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Fëanáro ~ Fëanor  
> Nolofinwë ~ Fingolfin  
> Arafinwë ~ Finarfin  
> Laurëfindë ~ Glorfindel  
> Findekáno ~ Fingon  
> Maitimo ~ Maedhros  
> Tyelkormo ~ Celegorm  
> Findaráto ~ Finrod  
> Macalaurë ~ Maglor  
> Melkor ~ Morgoth Bauglir
> 
> Whether greed is good or not, Fëanor did become High King of the Noldor later in my series, as Eru intended, and so although he did *want* every-one, he did have some foresight here, and knew that he would indeed one day *have* them all.


	7. ~ Wild Strawberries ~

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Finrod returns from an excursion north of Nargothrond...
> 
> Mild slash. Fits in with Celegorm and Finrod's relationship as explained in [Magnificat of the Damned: Book I ~ A Resurrection of Stars,](viewstory.php?sid=41) and [Magnificat Of The Damned: Book II ~ The Fires of Fate.](viewstory.php?sid=119)

Start a story or poem with Charles Dickens famous opening line from A Tale of Two Cities: "It was the best of times, it was the worst of times." (If you're creating a piece of artwork for this challenge, use this line as your theme or title.)

**~ Wild Strawberries ~**

  
It was the best of times, it was the worst of times.  
The worst of times because so much was lost after the golden days of the Long Peace. Angrod and Aegnor had died in Morgoth's first blazing onslaught against Dorthonion, Fingolfin in fey, furious challenge against Morgoth himself. Four years ago, that was, and the Noldor and Men had begun to push back, regaining some of what they had lost. But not the dead... _  
Lands may be regained, but never the dead..._

The best of times because Celegorm was alive, was here in Nargothrond with his brother Curufin, fierce splendid additions to the realm, tireless warriors, charismatic in command, clever in council. Finrod was not unappreciative of their qualities, nor did he discount the strength they added to Nargothrond, but his deepest, truest delight must be hidden under layers of courtly politesse – most of the time.

It was difficult to resist Celegorm's siege; he attacked overtly, subtly, charmingly, passionately, and Finrod felt as if he were sparring against a master swordsman who knew all his weaknesses. The times he himself or Celegorm were gone from Nargothrond were a relief, yet when one or the other returned, the surge of greater relief at their safety swept Finrod dangerously close to losing all circumspection.

After Halmir, lord of the Haladin of Brethil and the Iathrim under Beleg had crushed an attack at Teiglin, the orc-tide was stemmed, and to the south, Nargothrond had peace, though they were not idle. Amon Ethir* watched the north, and the smithies smoked and crashed with the making of weapons and armor. Warriors went into Brethil and Doriath, and even into the Vale of Sirion, where Finrod's once beautiful tower of Minas Tirith now stood wrapped in shadow. A dread power dwelt ther. Finrod had felt its unsleeping eye from afar off, before his captains urged him to turn back. The Vale was a place of orcs and death now, where the river had run so sweet.

His warriors, he knew, were relieved when he gave the order to turn back. They had objected strenuously to his coming so far within closing distance of the enemy's jaws.

“Thou art our king, and have a duty to thy people,” Lord Edrahil had said. “All the north is waste now, and to go beyond the watchful axes of Brethil and the March wardens of Doriath is folly, Sire.”

“I built Minas Tirith.**” Finrod felt the wind from the north cold against his lips as he spoke. It sluiced through the Pass of Sirion like a blade from Angband.  
“And I know well that not all Orodreth's folk escaped. It is my duty to look upon it.”  
His duty to take it back, and he knew that he would not, though only to his sister Galadriel had he ever shared the knowledge that one day Nargothrond would lie broken and ruined. And Minas Tirith was named Tol-in-Gaurhoth now, for the terrible shapes that some had seen in the mists. Finrod knew every soul  
who had been lost there; some would not have retreated, even under the cloud of terror that descended upon it: bright Hendunár, whom Finrod had made Warden of the Tower before Orodreth's tenure, his wife Moriel. Finrod dreamed sometimes of screams issuing from the depths of the tower, and woke cold to the bone.

The return journey was not entirely without peril, for they came upon a scouting party of great orcs heading north toward Tol Sirion. A short, vicious little skirmish ensued. To Finrod it was a negligible blow against the Enemy, but every orc slain was one less to harry the Haladin or the great watchtowers of the Ered Wethrin, and Fingon's people.

Once away from the Pass of Sirion and danger, they had relaxed a little. There seemed to be a demarcation line between Brethil and the Vale, as if they rode from a cold spring back into early summer. The wind dropped, turned, and blew gently from the mild south. Even the grave mounds near the Crossings of Teiglin were lush with grass over the bones of the orcs slain there. Peace; such a fragile state now, and so very desirable. They lodged in Brethil on their return journey, warning Halmir of the orcs, before crossing Teiglin and riding back to Nargothrond

~~~

The song of Nargothrond hummed around him in colored stone as he dressed for the evening meal. He had been gone longer than he had indicated, and he guessed Orodreth knew where, though his brother said nothing. Clasping a chain about his neck, Finrod left his chambers for the great hall. Many of the court were already there, and there was a rustle as of a field of flowers as they bowed. Curufin was already at Finrod's left-hand, Orodreth on his right, but Celegorm was absent.  
'Hunting Taur-en-Faroth,*** Sire,' his manservant had vouchsafed when the king inquired as to his cousin's whereabouts.

The court sat, and poured wine, tearing new bread, servers entered with platters of baked fish, and the hall was eating when Celegorm entered, Huan at his heels. Perfectly attired in old-gold, his hair was yet wet as if he had bathed and dressed in haste. He took his seat with nod and lifted the winecup.

It was alarming, the sudden heating of his flesh, the upward bound of his heart. Finrod, in the sight of all the gathering, was roused, and grateful for his tunic and the white spread of cloth on the board. He flaked fish delicately with his fork, and asked: “How was the hunting, coz'?”

“How was thine own?” Celegorm spoke in an undervoice, and flashed him a hot black look under raised brows.

He knew. How?  
“I would that it had been more profitable.”

“If thou wouldst hunt wolves, let Huan be at thy side.”

The great warhound had settled himself between their chairs, and his head came up as they spoke. Finrod stroked the sleek white pelt fondly, and one of the servers came with a great bone. Huan accepted it gravely, and fell to gnawing, ears alert as if he followed the conversation going back and forth across him.

“A wolf hunt, was it?” Orodreth asked from the right, the question sharp.

“Our cousin jests,” Finrod said pacifically, with a warning glance at Celegorm.

“Of course,” Celegorm speared trout viciously. “There are no wolves south of Brethil, are there.”

“Only two,” Orodreth murmured, and both Celegorm and Curufin straightened, glaring. It was no secret, this lack of amity between them, but it was wearing to act as peacemaker. Finrod even understood his brother; Orodreth resented that the Fëanorions had come to his aid at Tol Sirion, and the subsequent welcome given them in Nargothrond. They were, he told his brother, gathering too great a power in the kingdom, and it was true, but Finrod did not begrudge them it. They had forged respect from suspicion, for none of Finrod's people bore the House of Fëanor any great love.

 _Save me,_ Finrod thought with a dry inner smile.

“Brethil has seen no wolves, Eru be thanked, since the winter,” he said. “Their stockades are high and their axes keen. They hosted me kindly. Let us drink to the valiant Haladin.” And he raised his silver cup in a toast, and the table intoned, “Brethil. The Haladin.”

Meat came after, and tender asparagus dripping with yellow butter, then honey-cake with fresh-churned cream. Finrod managed the meal with the help of Finduilas, who was well accustomed steering between the shoals of awkward social intercourse, and drew her father into a conversation with herself and Gwindor that left Orodreth no time to pinch at the Fëanorions. Celegorm spoke to his brother, leaving Finrod free to watch his court and to think.

 _Thou art a fool!_ A booted foot kicked his ankle, though not ungently. He glanced at where his cousin's creamy head was turned away. _Curufin told me thine armorer has thy gear. It has seen battle._

 _Curufin sees too much._  
So did his armorer. He had cleaned it, but the metal bore scrapes that would need to be worked out in the smithy.

_I would have come with thee!_

Finrod had told him he might be going into Doriath, where the sons of Fëanor were barred from. He had considered it, so it was not entirely a lie, but also too close for his liking. That happened to him more often these days, this bending of the truth around his cousin. But the alternative would take him into dangerous territory.

 _I was undecided._ His tone rebuked, and he rose, gestured to his people to continue, and left the dais.

The high gallery was dark. The sound of the Narog rose on a wave of cool scent, and a nightingale lifted its haunting voice from across the river. If one did not know there was death and strife in the world, one could imagine it was all like this; a soft summer night.

The door to the bedroom opened, and tranquility vanished as the infalling light showed a smoky swirl of pale hair, the flash of gems.

“It is not thy place to chide me,” Finrod said, before his cousin could speak.

“ _'Do nothing foolish,'_ thou didst tell me!” Celegorm cursed, and shook him, the imprint of his fingers piercing flesh, becoming fiery tendrils that undulated downward to form a knot in Finrod's groin. “Nothing foolish!”

“Enough.” Finrod disengaged himself with as much dignity as he could summon. “I weighed the risks and listened to reports before I set out.”

“Thou didst go into the Pass.” Celegorm's voice was fierce. “The Haladin keep the orcs north of the Ford of Brithiac. Why, cousin? It is folly!”

“Minas Tirith,” Finrod told him.

“Eru give me patience! That is not just folly, cousin, it is to tempt death.”

“Peace! I did not go close.”

“Too close.”

Finrod brushed past him. “We met a party of orcs. They were returning to the tower I think.” He felt a coign with restless fingers. “My tower. All I could see were the pinnacles rising above a white mist...”

The nightingale was still singing, plangent as a harp.

“Promise me thou wilt never go so close again.”  
Celegorm had come close behind him. His hand settled over Finrod's.

“I cannot make any such promise, and thou knowest it.”

“Then let me accompany thee. Why didst thou not? Have we not aided thee, Curufin and I?”

What could he say? _It was a long winter, and we were in one another's company too much. And I have made other promises to myself..._

“Greatly. Thou hast aided me greatly.” He turned his head. Celegorm's face was so near he could have kissed it. He wanted to.  
“Look,” he said. “The moon rises.”

Full and ripe it was, a great argent bloom rising over far-off Amon Ereb.

“Beautiful but it gives no warmth.” Celegorm murmured, and the inflection of his voice was clear. “I brought something for thee,” he added in a different tone, almost huskily. “I was in the hills when news came of thy return.”  
He moved away then, opened the door into Finrod's bedchamber, clearly waiting for him to follow. Only one torchiére burned, turning the patterns of the stone liquid.

“Leave the door open,” Finrod said, as he crossed to a long settle. “Let the night air in.” As if accepting the invitation, a breeze stirred the hangings, lending life to the woven flowers. Celegorm set down a carafe, its sides misted with ice, and a lidded silver bowl. Sitting down next to Finrod, he gestured.

“Strawberries.”

Finrod set the lid aside, smiling. He shook his head. “My thanks.” They grew wild and very sweet in the wooded hills of Taur-en-Farot, and must now have just come to fruit.

Pouring the bubbling golden wine, Celegorm's face relaxed a little.  
“Not that thou doth merit my trying to carry a bag of fruit home at a gallop.”

“Of course not,” Finrod murmured with the demure downward glance he knew roused his cousin. Another foolish act, he supposed, and in a way, more dangerous for him than espying conquered Minas Tirith from a distance, or engaging a war-party of orcs.

Celegorm's eyes flicked up, as Finrod knew they would. They might have looked black in the dim light, but for the frosted sheen of silver that lay over their darkness like the ice-mist over the wine flagon.

“The people of Nargothrond need thee,” he said roughly, insofar as the tempered chime of his voice could ever be rough.

“There is Orodreth.”

“I do not care about Orodreth, and he cares less about me. I care about _thee!_ ” Celegorm slammed the jug down, and picked a strawberry from the bowl, dipping it into the wine. “Taste,” he commanded, and Finrod closed his lips around the fruit and ate. It was indeed wonderfully sweet under the tartness of the wine.

“I am not a child, cousin,” he said, imitating the action. “And thou may have noticed, I am hale and whole.”

Celegorm's mouth touched his fingers as he took the strawberry. “I thank Eru for thy safety.” He proferred his goblet. Finrod lifted his own to Celegorm, and they drank from one another's cups.

“I missed thee.”

Simple honesty, the gift of wild fruits, were weapons when wielded by Celegorm. And they could disarm Finrod so easily.  
“I am here now.”

“There is some power that sits in Minas Tirith now, coz'. We told thee. And thou must have sensed it.”

“I did.” Finrod reached for another strawberry, dipping it in wine. Celegorm took it from him in one voluptuous movement. “But I needed to see it. I dream of it at whiles.”

“What dost thou dream of?”

“I hear a woman screaming. Children crying.” He shook his head.

Celegorm's face changed. He appeared uncertain, discomfited.  
“We saved all we could. There were not enough of us, and we were fighting in fog, and tired from our journey from Himlad...” Abruptly he snapped his goblet down on the low table. “No. No. There is no true excuse. Whomever lead the orcs was a being of Power. We simply could not withstand him. The orcs were madenned to war-lust and our own courage was drained, as if it flowed from us into them. And there were Fell-wolves. Their eyes looked almost human. It was – ” He looked away, his beautiful profile stony. “My father would not have fled.”

“Thou didst not flee.” Finrod turned his face back gently. “Look at me. I was told. It was an orderly retreat, not a rout. Many more could have been lost.”

“Thou art too kind.” His cheek moved under Finrod's hand as he smiled.

“I am truthful. And thou knowest not what thy father would have done.”

“Ah, coz, but I do. And so dost thou.” He took a fruit. “Just as Fingolfin did.”

“And _died._ So many have died. Two of my uncles, two of my brothers...”  
At least Galadriel was safe, and Glorfindel too, gone with Turgon into some secret fastness which many spoke of, though none knew where it lay. The Hidden City, the Noldor called it.  
 _Glorfindel, how I wish I could have thee by my side, but my kingdom will not endure, and thou wouldst not come. Noble fool. How couldst thou have brought shame on me?_  
“I want thee alive,” he said quietly.

“I want thee alive also.”

“I am,” Finrod said into the familiar silver-black flash of Celegorm's eyes. Who moved so that his lips touched Finrod's palm.  
“Do not go nigh Tol Sirion again,” his breath was warm.

Finrod withdrew his hand, pressed a strawberry against the lush mouth, against the forthcoming words and Celegorm, perforce, ate.

“I do not wish to argue, just to enjoy the night, the fruit and the wine. And,” he smiled. “the company.”

And he did. Dangerous though it might be to his peace of mind, he wished to savor this time with his cousin, who sat so close that his scent, roses and amber, blended with that of the fruit. Valinor was gone. The Noldor were shut out. Celegorm was more real than his private oaths.  
 _And yet I made them._

“Then eat, drink.” His cousin sounded husky again. In silence they shared the fruit until all but one was gone, and the goblets were empty. Finrod poured them full again, and Celegorm dipped his fingers in the bowl, quickly scooping up the last berry.

“Ungallant,” Finrod chided laughingly. “I thought they were for me.”

“They are. Take it.” Celegorm placed the fruit between his white teeth, and settled back against the cushions.

A little wine at feast and a cup here was certainly not enough to make Finrod even mildly intoxicated. The warm sense of recklessness was purely due to the proximity of his cousin. Celegorm lay like feline temptation, creamy hair spilling from the settle to the floor, gems glittering at finger, and wrist, earlobe and throat, none brighter than his eyes. He raised his fine brows, gestured with one hand. _Come here,_ it commanded.

Finrod's blood rampaged through his veins. “Unfair.” His voice shattered into a whisper, even as he leaned over.

 _I should not._ But he knew he would. For the moment, there was only the two of them, the soft night-breeze, the dancing light of the torchiére, wine and fruit on his tongue, desire in his loins...

Celegorm's long lashes fanned down as Finrod closed his teeth over the berry. Time drew its breath, held it as they held theirs, lips just touching, parting...The sweetest kiss...

Through layers of stone, Huan's unmistakable deep-throated bark sounded a warning. Finrod lifted himself, rose as Celegorm sat, and closed the gallery door. That private place was not for any-one save he and his cousin, who cast him a look of frustrated desire and burning gratitude that he, Finrod, understood that. Returning to the settle, Finrod picked up his wine as the only person save Celegorm whom would walk into his chambers unannounced called peremptorily: “Finrod?”

He knew he was blushing, but that could be attributed to the wine. He glazed his face, let serenity settle into his eyes as Orodreth strode into the inner chamber.  
“Brother,” he nodded. “Wouldst thou like a cup?” He smiled. “I am afraid thou art late for the wild strawberries. And they were so _very_ sweet.”

~~~

**Notes:**

Hendunár and Moriel ~ Moriel was Vanimórë's mother.

* Amon Ethir ~ A hill raised by the people of Finrod in the wide plain of Talath Dirnen, (The Guarded Plain) a league (approximately three miles) east of the Doors of Nargothrond above the river Narog. Over the years, trees grew on its flanks, but from its clear summit the watchers of Nargothrond could watch the lands about with the clear sight of the Elves, and so the hill got its name, Amon Ethir, meaning 'Hill of Spies'.

** Minas Tirith. ~ The tower that guarded the Pass of Sirion, after which Minas Tirith in Gondor was perhaps named. Built by Finrod Felagund to keep watch on the western pass of Beleriand, it was mainly in the keeping of his brother Orodreth until captured by Sauron after the Dagor Bragollach (Battle of Sudden Flame.)

*** Taur-en-Faroth ~ The hills that lay above Finrod's citadel of Nargothrond; they took their name (meaning 'Forest of the Hunters') from the woodlands that grew there.

[Double click for a very large map of Beleriand showing the places mentioned.](http://7a6972656f5f74637568.killerhor.net/maps/map_bel.jpg)


	8. Maglor the Mighty

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The Bingo Card for the Sons of Fëanor was 'Maglor the Mighty'.  
> I write about Maglor in everything, but so as to have completed something within the allotted time span, I created a poem with artwork.

 

 

Cherif Fortin Art scanned from book, superimposed over a bloody sunset.  
I have recently been reading some ancient Welsh poetry, including the Gododdin and The Stanzas of the Graves, and wanted to try to write something in a similar style, rather than rhyming poetry, as the aforementioned do read as very Silmarillion-esque.


	9. ~ Never Again ~

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Fingon, Fingolfin and of course, Maedhros meet for the first time after their rebirth. Would be part of [ Magnificat of the Damned. Book II. Chapter One ~ The Rebirth of Fire.](http://archiveofourown.org/works/224135/chapters/339037)
> 
> Written for the wonderful Ziggy, while patiently waiting her own Maedhros and Fingon. :)

**~ Never Again ~**

 

~ An eternity, a wink of frozen time, such was his memory of the Everlasting Dark. Because there was no way to mark the passing of time, he, and he guessed all of those imprisoned clung to the _now_. They were like the victims of a crucifixion, whose dying was designed to be slow. But they were already dead, flung bodiless from one war to another; a battle for the survival of their souls. It was their souls the Valar crucified and left for Morgoth.

Fingon recalled the paradox of dread and relief when he felt the spirits of the condemned. He did not think that he could have borne the Valars mercy, had they chosen to exercise it. A forever in the Halls of Waiting, alone and removed from those he had loved seemed to him the worse fate. And he held to that belief through the timeless torment, through the repeating images of death and betrayal, murder and agony. But even through that he was not alone. He could not touch them, and yet they knew him, embraced him and together they stood, defying dissolution.

When release came, when Light broke into the Void it felt, oddly, as if no time at all had passed, as if they had waited and fought for a moment they knew must come. Their souls plunged like meteors back into life, into the exquisite rightness of their forms.

He saw the glittering grains of sand sift cool under his fingers. Only one place had such sand, crumbs of nacre and quartz that flamed like snow under the sun.

_How? Why?_

Fingon pushed himself to his feet, caught back the hair that flowed loose and rained down his nakedness.

_Naked, yes as our first birth for this, our second._

His sight leapt towards the radiance that bathed him. A Silmaril breathing light that made all other colours dim, that threw elongated black shadows far down the beach. He knew the man who held it, knew his history, and had been shown his first death.

Glorfindel's hair burned molten in Silmaril fire; his eyes were not human. Power shone from under his skin.

_How?_

He turned as a movement, a familiarity in that movement, caught at his soul, staring at his father, with him in the Dark always, but as bodiless as he, as all of them.

He had not even been in Barad Eithel when Fingolfin rode away to challenge Morgoth but their, last too-brief meeting had eaten at Fingon's heart even as he fought, throwing back the legions from Angband again and again, walking among his warriors, riding at their head, watching the mountain slopes burn. The look in his father's eyes as destruction crashed in waves of scorched blood across the North had been too reminiscent of Fëanor's when he swore the Oath: Eyes like flaming ice, freezing sanity behind them. Fingon had only glimpsed what lay under his fathers careful and necessary facade of pride and a High King's haughty power. And, Hells, Fingon knew how much sheer will Fingolfin poured into holding it in place. All those turning years from the moment fire painted the far-off clouds of Endor lurid red, and betrayal smashed his heart. Running from his own host through the air grown bitter with more than cold, Fingon had found his father standing motionless as his image in the palace of Tirion, head raised. When he looked at Fingon they had shared that bottomless cup of devastation.

Fingon's cup had emptied, refilled by a reunion he had never ceased to hope for, yet looked back on forever with horror for Maedhros' suffering. Fingolfin's draught was unending, his own private Hells.

Like all the Finwëions, Fingon loved with the single-minded force he took into battle, but there were three who crowned his heart in concentric circles, and his father was one. He threw himself into Fingolfin's arms as he had when a child. He was held as dearly, as fiercely as he had imagined in the years when the crown sat heavy on his brow, and Maedhros was far away on cold Himring. He could not believe the solidity of his father's flesh, the hardness of his muscles, that all of him was here, _real._ It seemed Fingolfin could not either; he drew back, clasping Fingon's face between his hands, and the expression in his eyes brought hot, choking tears into Fingon's throat. Fingolfin kissed him, hard, loving, and then his head turned, and one arm dropped to reach out. His smile was a thing of beauty, of pride, of still-unbelieving joy.

Fingon knew, and he turned to the son he had not seen full grown, only in the visions of his death. Gil-galad, as tall as he, as Fingolfin, with the eyes he had inherited from both, a face like cut and polished marble, came into his arms. Fingolfin's arms circled them both.

Three high kings, whom had reaped the Doom to its fullest and died vicious, bitter deaths.

At last they looked at one another, just breathing, feeling, then slowly turned.

The damned. There were more than a few, men and women who embraced with bright, tear-wet faces.

He did not need to search. His eyes fell first on Maglor, standing with one he knew only from the last vision he had been given of his son's death. Still within the curve of his arms, Gil-galad stiffened.  
Maglor's son, cinnabar hair, his father and grandfather's face which, as if drawn by an invisible hand, now turned toward them.

It is too much, sometimes, to see such emotion in another's face, and it was all around them, a woken history of anguish. Fingon's eyes moved on, not far, and stopped.

Maedhros' presence struck him like a comet. It took his breath, wrapped it in awe. It always had, from the moment he had first seen Maedhros ride into the great ward of the palace with his father and brothers. As a child, he had not wondered at the attraction, simply needed to be close to its source, Maedhros with hair that Fingon told him might have been hammered by metalsmiths from scoured copper and bronze, that crowned him more beautifully than any princely circlet. Hair that had been hacked off in Angband, but grown again, and now fell in waves to his knees.

He felt, through his shock, a hand on his back, heard his father say gently: “Go.”

Maedhros had not moved. Around him, his brother's embraced, perhaps leaving him alone for this reunion. His lovely mouth was a strict line; Fingon had seen it so as he grew, attained adulthood, and the love he had never tried to hide assumed a new complexity, one which both of them knew was prohibited. Fingon had never cared a snap of his fingers. But it seemed Maedhros did, throwing up walls against Fingon's unrelenting siege, but never quite able to repulse him.

He took a step forward, another.

They had argued of course. “Thou art too young,” Maedhros had told him, and under his breath in a passionate hiss: “I will not ruin thee. We both know the Laws.”

“ _Ruin_ me?” Fingon laughed angrily. “To the Outer Dark with the damned laws!” And before Maedhros could turn away, leave him as he so often did, Fingon dragged his head down and kissed him. Maedhros called him _the Valiant_ but he had been terrified at that moment. Had his cousin evinced disgust, his world would have collapsed around him. But Maedhros did not. For a moment, he resisted, lips closed and tight, then his body surged against Fingon's, soft as liquid fire save where he grew hard at his loins. Fear vanished, burned away in the sensation of their bodies meshed close, lips searching, striving for more touch, more taste. It was Fingon, with a flash of wisdom that had broken it, feeling as if he tore his soul away. Breathing hard, cheeks scalding, he said, “If that is ruination, I will embrace it to my life's end.” And then he was the one to walk away, half-blind with passion. He looked back, at the door, to see Maedhros' flushed face, parted mouth bruised, berry red, silver eyes brighter than Telperion's blooms.

And Fingon knew he had won, knew the perfect rightness of his love.  
But Maedhros proved stubborn beyond measure. Fingon resumed his siege, even finding a certain affectionate amusement in his cousin's hard-fought battle with chastity.

Maedhros had long passed the age when the Eldar were wont to marry, but Fingon was not, and he was forced into the motions of matchmaking as his cousins had been. Maedhros did not attend those feasts; he was often away with his family. The estrangement that lay between the son of Miriel and the sons of Indis was widening, so that it was only on rare occasions that Fëanor was seen with his half-brothers. But word would seep out, Fingon well knew, whispers of betrothal, whom had he danced with, whom had he favoured. He hoped that Maedhros, whom could appear so aloof, his beautiful, milk-skinned face emotionless, distant as Taniquetil, would feel some prick of jealousy It would serve him right for his intransigence.

It was that day, the day of their first kiss, he had set out to speak with his father. The feasts and visits wearied his soul. He enjoyed the company of the maidens. Had he been a different person...but was not, and was all-too aware that his smallest smile, a touch of the hand could be construed as encouragement. It must end.

Fingolfin had gone from Tirion that morning, to the pastures north of the city where he bred his great horses. He greeted Fingon's arrival with a smile that faded as Fingon asked if they might speak privately, and under a spread of green-gold oaks, he spoke the words that he knew would stamp him with perversion in the eyes of the world.

But not, it was to transpire, in his father's eyes. Of course, Fingolfin had seen his relationship with Maedhros from its inception, had never tried to prise Fingon's tight grip from his cousin's heart. It must have been excessively awkward for him to condone it, to actively facilitate and accept it as he had during Fingon's childhood, before the boy he had been understood the stony ground that lay between Fëanor and Fingolfin. Or so he thought then, with the sun-flecks sliding down his father's still face, dancing in Fingon's eyes. He had thrown his head back; his full growth not quite come so that he must look up to lay his words before Fingolfin.

He had crossed his arms against the expected anger, though his father had never been angry with him. His cheeks flamed again, but he refused to bend his head in shame. He felt none.

Fingolfin reached out, caught his wrists, drew them from his body. In the hot, windy light, it was difficult to read his expression.  
He said, “I know.” And, as Fingon's mouth parted: “What does he say?”

Unexpected relief melting through him, Fingon said, “He says he does not want to ruin me, father.”

A tiny smile tipped the corner of his father's mouth. “I have always thought him an honourable man. Thou must be driving him mad.”

Fingon settled against his father's hard chest. He was shaking. Fingolfin kissed his hair.  
“I will not tell thee it will be easy. But I will tell thee, my dear son, that thy heart has not lead thee astray.”

“I know he is Fëanorion,” Fingon spoke into the linen shirt, warm from his father's body. “But thou doth not dislike him.”

Fingolfin's arms tightened. His heartbeat sounded against Fingon's ear, louder, faster.  
“Have I ever given thee reason to think I do?”

“No. And I love thee for it. I know it must be hard.” He raised his head, and Fingolfin's brows rose questioningly. “But I have never heard any of them say aught against thee.” Not even Fëanor, whom had always accepted Fingon's 'friendship' with Maedhros. Fëanor could be alarming, but he had never treated Fingon with anything other than kindness. “I would not have permitted it.”

“I know.” His hands cupped Fingon's face. “I would advise thee to be careful. It is said that before the Eldar came to Valinor such relationships were common, but Ingwë, my father and Olwë all agreed to live by the Valars' decree, by their Laws.” A flash in his eyes that was no trick of the sunlight. “I do not know any-one who lives openly with such desires. It is a matter of secrecy, and sometimes lies.”

“I do not want to live a lie,” Fingon said, and knew he must, for his father's sake, for Maedhros'.

“It may not be forever.”

“Endor?”

“Maedhros has spoken to thee of it?” Fingolfin looked startled. He dropped his hands to Fingon's shoulders, still holding, giving his support, and Fingon was grateful.

“I heard Fëanor speaking of it. Father — I would follow him.” He held his breath.

“So would I. So he talks of it openly, and before thee?”

“I did not know that it was a secret.”

“I do not think it is, but it may be almost treasonous.”

“Grandfather — ”

“I do not speak of Finwë, but the Valar.”

“Then thou art of a mind with Fëanor, that they would keep us here, as little more than useful ornaments?”

Fingolfin's black brows drew down.  
“I think we will not know unless we choose to leave,” he said. “But for now, I do not ask thee to hide thy love, and I doubt Maedhros can hide anything from his father or brothers, but I do not know what the repercussions would be, what would fall on _thee_ , if thy love was publicly known. I love thee, so I ask thee to be cautious. Look at thee.” He smiled wryly. “Any-one seeing thee would know thee in love. And thou hast no fear at all.”

“Of what?” he wondered. “Love-making? No. Yes.” A serpent of lust, fear, anticipation stretched itself in his loin, and a shiver ran through him. “I only know that I want him, in every way.”

Now it was Fingolfin who coloured. Fingon did not understand why, then, but it was not long before he guessed. It was longer before Maedhros threw open his guarded gates.

It was not easy to love secretly, especially for the House of Finwë. There were eyes that watched, mouths that whispered. Fingon was careful. Not careful enough, it became clear, as rumours spread. He met them with unblinking eyes. His mother's disappointment was harder to bear. She had been corresponding with Ingwë, hoping to arrange a marriage to a Vanyar. Fingon did not altogether blame her. When the three kindreds first settled in Aman they mingled freely, but as the years passed the Vanyar withdrew to be close to Manwë and Varda. Perhaps Anairë felt lonely. She was a sweet, pious woman who made one room of the palace a temple dedicated to Varda, and spent much time there amidst the smoke of incense. Fingon never felt he knew her well, as if she wore a veil even against her children. Later he wondered if she were unhappy, decided that she probably was. But he had no remedy for it. She seemed to give her children up, one by one, as they grew, and took to journeying to the Holy Mountain, staying there for longer and longer periods. Fingon did not think his refusal to marry had proved the wine she could not swallow, driving her deeper into her prayers, as if she believed herself responsible for his 'unnatural' desires. But a shadow of guilt remained.

Everything followed, both the beautiful and the black. Hot words and rivalry sprang up between the followers of the sons of Finwë, and not only their followers. Fingon never knew what had happened to unsheathe Fëanor's sword, set it at Fingolfin's throat, but the Valar should never have interfered, banishing Fëanor to Formenos. It was a matter for the Noldor. As it was, the rumours became fact, and Fingolfin donned the crown of the High King.  
Strange years those, and off-kilter. Nothing balanced, as if their lives had been picked up and set back down on black ice. One might see the lingering shadow of Melkor in that.  
Fingon had not been willing to wait until the appointed time of Maedhros' return, and he had gone to Formenos. He _had_ been cautious then, not wanting to bring down further punishment on the Fëanorions. He believed, perhaps foolishly, that once his father released Fëanor, as he had sworn, then all would be made right, that they would at last depart Valinor and return to the lands where the Elves had awoken, free to live under their own laws.

His wishes were realised, in blood, and storm and the fire of burning ships, and the laws so deeply ingrained on the Noldor's souls were not to be put aside. He became the son of the High King, and duties settled on him like a heavy mantle, not the Oath which the Fëanorions wore like crowns of black fire, but the more mundane, no less stern duties of a prince: marriage and the begetting of an heir. He could never regret his son, and Maedhros had gone far away, to stare Angband directly in its teeth, but those years had been bitter.

 _And I failed thee,_ he thought now. _I died under a balrog's axe._

He had vowed so many things, and only one remained unbroken. He loved, and would always love even if the sun devoured the world and burned it to ash.

Maedhros' death was fire in his mind. The sea-wind blew that polished hair like flame, and he remembered his soul screaming in the Dark, _No, Maedhros, no._ But all Maedhros could see was his own failure, the dead that had gone into the dark. The Silmaril burning his hand was, to his fevered mind, proof that even his father's creations rejected him.

_But no-one could have fulfilled that Oath, Maedhros. Dost thou not see? Thou wert not meant to. It was supposed to destroy us all. And it did. The Doom twisted all the paths, laid traps, ambushed us. We were pitted against the malice of Melkor and the Valar who hated us. Thou didst think thou should have done more. Thou wouldst have gone back into Angband for the Silmarils. There was a mountain laid on thy shoulders, beloved._

Memories unfurled like banners as he crossed the space between them: Maedhros, head thrown back, laughing, in Tirion, sweeping up a young Fingon to carry him, Maedhros at feast, sitting beside his father, smiling, nodding at something Fëanor said, turning a wine goblet in those elegant fingers. Then Maedhros furious, eyes like burning gems, telling him there was no future in their love. Fingon might have been hurt had he not known Maedhros hurt himself more. Whatever passed between them, he had known to the core of his heart that Maedhros loved him. He had pursued like a coursing hound, until his cousin had nowhere to run but into his arms. Maedhros lying in a storm of burnished hair, silver light melting over every curve and planed hollow of his body; standing sword-tip to sword-tip with Fëanor and his brothers while the air caught fire with the Oath that would shape their days henceforward. Then worn, and shorn, waking from dreams of torture, holding his screams behind his teeth, slamming them back into his soul, nailing them down with his will, the same will that made a sword sing in his left hand. There were black shadows in the silver eyes ever after, a furious driving force that made his name a thing of terror to the Enemy's orcs when he rode against them under the banner of his hair. Unconquered, save by himself, at the end. Morgoth could not break him, only his own hand.

His own hand. But it was two hands now that gripped Fingon, that held him, that pressed into his flesh even as his own dragged down through the slippery masses of hair, the long curve of back. He felt as if their bodies merged, as if they drank, gasping with thirst at one another, filling the dryness of their lost years, the horror of their deaths, the cages of the dark, their prison for how long?

There was not, and had never been anything gentle in their passion, even after Maedhros recovery from his torment. He had been savage then, his soul seeking the benison of remembered pleasure. Fingon had not cared. His fear had been that Maedhros' soul would knit itself over the hollowness of rape, and shut him out. He had welcomed, even fanned the flames of Maedhros' wild, desperate need. There had always been fire between them. Death could not quench it.

Fingon's mouth was bruised with their frenzied kisses. Their hands wound into one another's hair, and with a gasp they pulled on it, coming apart to stare, to drive the image of their reality into their souls. He saw the image of his own death in Maedhros' eyes, saw again the lava of the broken Earth taking his cousin, and he shook his head against the _wrongness_ of it. They unloosed their hands, brought them up, palm to palm.

“Never again,” Maedhros said in his voice of wine-and-honey.  
Never again to compromise their love, never conceal it. And never to part.  
Never again.

~~~


	10. ~ Facade ~

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> First of two chapters from Fingolfin's viewpoint. Set in Tirion after he and Fëanor became lovers. I want to flesh out this part of their life.
> 
> Tension, facades, politics, overly religious Vanyar, incest, and a conversation between Fëanor and Fingolfin. Names in Quenya.

 

**~ Facade ~**

 

~ Laurelin's slow waning cast liquid gold over stone foliage, ran along veins of melted gems. Flowers exhaled, mingled their fragrance with wine, food, perfume. Table-cloths white as Taniquetil backed goblets of gold, silver, tinted glass. Soft music underlined conversations. Jewels glimmered and sparked, set in lustrous hair, on brows, circling throats, wrists, long fingers. Another celebration in the palace gardens of Tirion.

It was Arafinwë's begetting day feast. He graced the head table, looking down upon his guests. His face was still, unsmiling.

Nolofinwë, his appetite gone beyond possibility of returning, tilted his head toward his eldest son, whom had likewise ignored the dishes prepared and presented to the guests. The reasons sat at a long table opposite, ebon and copper haired. One of them was likewise the reason for Arafinwë's ill-humour and Nolofinwë's clenched belly.

Fëanáro had attended at Finwë's request, not his youngest son's. Their father still tried to foster goodwill among his children but it was, on the surface at least, an increasingly thankless task. Arafinwë's frigid courtesy when his half-brother strode into the gardens with his seven sons was enough to chill the wine-goblets.

But Arafinwë was not innocent of his own machinations, and must have guessed Finwë would invite Fëanáro. His response sat at his table: Nerdanel.

Anairë on his right, Findekáno on his left, Nolofinwë threw a would-be casual glance down the Fëanárion table. Arafinwë's feast it might be but, as always, his half-brother drew the eye. He was wearing the Silmarilli, but his eyes outshone them. His sons glowed, beautiful, passionate, sometimes petulant, talking none-too quietly, and apparently uncaring of whose feast this was. Nolofinwë, whom had been waiting fatalistically for the shallow goodwill of the gathering to disintegrate when Nerdanel entered, admitted he had misjudged his half-brother. There was not a trace of annoyance on that too-beautiful face. When servants cleared the dishes away Fëanáro's sons rose, one after another and made their way to their mother. There was restraint between them, which was natural, but their interactions were courteous. Fëanáro did not leave his seat, relaxing back with a goblet of wine. When his sons returned, their talk resumed, animated, unconcerned.

Nolofinwë waited until his brother had greeted Indis, an obvious choice of guest, before approaching her. She had left Finwë's home when Arafinwë came of age, returning to her brother's household, and Nolofinwë did not see her often. There were no other Vanyar at the feast save Anairë, and Indis's two ladies. The times when the Noldor and Vanyar mingled freely had passed.

“Mother.” He embraced her.

She graced his cheek with a butterfly kiss. “The High King sends his regards.”  
Her voice was loud enough to carry to Finwë. His mind alert, Nolofinwë wondered if he imagined the emphasis she gave the title. According to the Valar, Ingwë, being closest spiritually and physically to the Holies, was the titular High King of all the Elves, both in Valinorë and Endorë, though that affected no-one. Few save his own people ever saw Ingwë, and his grandson knew him only as a cold, perfect figure, as if the snows of Taniquetil had moulded his flesh and bone. There had been few visits even when Nolofinwë was young, and those had been uncomfortably formal. He had sat like a posed china doll while Ingwë spoke of Manwë and Varda's glory. Finwë had once been close in friendship to Ingwë, said he had been a different man in Endorë. It was difficult to imagine.

“Please return my regards,” he said, for he was both prince and courtier.

“Thou may do that thyself,” his mother told him, with a small congratulatory smile. “I extend my brother's invitation to you to visit him in the presence of Manwë.”

He heard an amused, derisive laugh in his mind, felt his colour rise, and willed it down.  
“I am pleased to accept,” he lied, straight-faced.

His mother laid a delicate, jewelled hand on his arm. “Thou wilt escort me tomorrow.” She turned away to take a glass of wine. Nolofinwë inwardly groaned, returned to his table. Anairë asked him to repeat what Indis had said, and nodded with satisfaction. It was 'an honour,' she said complacently.

 _Lady, thou couldst gladly take my place,_ he thought. The air upon Taniquetil was too damned rarefied for his taste.

From the Fëanárion table, beautiful Nelyafinwë looked across, smiled at Nolofinwë. All Fëanáro's sons had inherited their father's dangerous, inflammatory smile. Then he looked straight at Findekáno. The smile dropped into complications. Findekáno, folding his napkin, said, “Excuse me, father, mother,” and rose.

Anairë's silence screamed disapproval, but she was far too well-bred to give voice to protest in such a public place. Her gown rustled as she turned to Turukáno, who sat beside her.

“Perhaps you and Elenwë would escort me to my aunt,” she murmured.

“Of course, mother.” Turukáno came to his feet, cast Nolofinwë a look that echoed his mother's unspoken words. But only for a moment. Nolofinwë met his eyes, setting down boundaries, and his son bent his head. Irrisë, unconcerned, drifted away and Nolofinwë, alone, set down his cup. Strange that this feeling should hint of his future.

He watched Anairë and Indis exchange air-light embraces, then looked across to where Findekáno talked to Nelyafinwë. The Valar had sanctioned his marriage to Anairë, whose mother (long gone into Varda's temple) was sister to Indis, yet two half-cousin's of the same gender were forbidden to love.

 _What are we going to do about that?_  
Findekáno had told him he was in love with Nelyafinwë, that it was not simply infatuation or misguided affection. Brave, bright Findekáno. He deserved better than this.

Feeling a pair of eyes on him, he laid his hands on the marble surface of the table, imagined that he drew its polished smoothness up through his fingertips, that it underlay his skin, set the sternness of stone behind his eyes. Such a facade had always been necessary to him, at least when chance placed he and Fëanáro in company. When he was younger, he feared he might otherwise betray how much his half-brother's dismissal of his existence hurt him. Now, such a disguise was even more necessary.

His mouth tightened. If he felt alone, he deserved no less. He made little effort to apply mortar to the cracks in his family, and thus could blame none but himself. Anairë had told him soon after Irissë's birth that she desired no more sexual congress, but that was no excuse for his infidelity. His wife's loss of desire was normal. He had lost his own before Irissë's conception. It was the way of things, declared the Laws. Elves bedded when young to beget children. Sex was a duty performed for procreation, but the One had seen fit to make it pleasurable for a while. Only for a while.

Nonetheless, it was a husband's duty to sire children if the woman wanted them, and Anairë did. She hoped, after two sons, for a daughter. At a loss, not a little humiliated by his lack of potency, when his half-brother sewed prolific seed, Nolofinwë approached his father for advice. After a long and difficult conversation, Finwë had given him a dark, bitter drink he said the Elves of Endorë used in their celebrations. It proved more than effective, though Anairë had berated him, after. He had not forced her, but the burst of lust had been shocking. He had wanted to rut with any-one, anywhere. Yet there was something familiar in the feeling too: a passion he had once known, if never for his Anairë. He had apologised, but his wife did not speak to him for days, though she had conceived.

Fëanáro had been away a long time when Nolofinwë's appetite failed. He did not realise there was a connection until his half brother blew back into Tirion after Irissë's birth. The sight of him dismounting his great stallion in the palace ward had struck Nolofinwë's like a wall of fire. Hot, shaking, his hands gripped the baluster so that his bones showed white. The potion could not hold a candle to this reaction. Hunger spilled, scalding, into his groin. Breath coming hard, he stared at Fëanáro as if he was the only light in a world gone dark. When he vanished from view, unconscious, magnificent, Nolofinwë went to his bedchamber, pleasured himself hard for the first time in many years until he was spent and languid with such relief he almost wept. Relief because his desire for Fëanáro had returned. Wrong or no, he could not understand how it had died, how his body and soul had forgotten. That had been the sense of loss he had felt, muffled by time and distance, but enough had remained to drag its fingers across his heart. He did not believe, then, that Fëanáro would ever look on him with favour, even with interest, but he would rather live all his life with this unassuagable ache than in the dusty ashes of dead passion. What he yearned for so guiltily was beyond his reach, but at least he felt _alive._ And now — it was too late for regrets. He could not undo what he had done; would not have even were it possible. The only shame he felt was at their consanguinity. Half-brother. Lover. A sin so taboo it could not exist.

He and Anairë were likewise too close, the Laws declared, yet his marriage had been blessed by Varda, presided over by she and Manwë. Even so, the feeling of wrongness had persisted. With Fëanáro, there was only a frantic, thrilling tension. It was a sin that shamed him, worried at him, threatened to unravel him. But when they were together...never had he felt so complete.

A servant pulled back his chair. He passed knots of people, mainly Arafinwë's guests, who bowed. He smiled at Findaráto, luminous and serene as a pearl, at brilliant, golden Laurëfindë, whose choice of guest as Arafinwë's second son was the beautiful Ektello, and crossed to his father.

“It pleases me to see that.” Finwë indicated Findekáno standing at Nelyafinwë's shoulder, leaning close to speak. Their cheeks almost touched.

Nolofinwë had spoken to no-one save Fëanáro and Findekáno himself about the true nature of Findekáno's love, and had long wearied of the arguments in his household. There had once been political legitimacy in his eldest's friendship with Nelyafinwë. He had said, years ago: “If Fëanáro and I cannot find common ground, at least our children can.” But he knew that politics was no longer a valid excuse, and was in no mood to invent a new one. The last time his wife and Turukáno expressed concern, he cut across their arguments with two hands slammed down on the table, startling them.  
“That is enough,” he had said. “Findekáno _loves_ Nelyafinwë. No-one has the right to step between them.”

It was the closest he had ever come to the dangerous ground, though 'love' could be construed in many different ways.

“Thou hast fostered this...love.” Anairë clenched slim hands in her gown. In water-blue silk to match her eyes, she looked like one of the ice-flower sculptures he had seen on Taniquetil. “And yet more rumors circulate of thy half-brother and his brood. It damages our son's reputation and reflects on all of us. There is far more at stake here than Findekáno's happiness, thou fool!”

“It is true, father,” Turukáno agreed, more temperately, but Nolofinwë could see the long jealousy in him for an older brother whose eyes were ever fixed on a Fëanárion star.

“Listen to me.” He looked from one to the other, holding their eyes. “Findekáno is grown. He is not lacking in political acumen. He understands. In Eru's name, he is the only one of us whom has even _tried_ to built a bridge between our houses.” It had been true, then, though there was no effort involved on Findekáno's part. “As for these _rumours_ of my half-brother and his sons — there has ever been gossip. Thy time would be better spent neither listening to it nor adding to it.”

Grey and blue eyes flashed at his words.

“Thou wilt regret this.” His wife turned away, spun back to add: “One does not break the Laws with impunity.”

“And how have the Laws been broken?” he inquired, pressing his voice down to softness. Because they had not been, though he was certain it was only Nelyafinwë's nobility that held the Laws in place.

A fulminous silence fell over the room. Turukáno looked troubled, Anairë furious in the manner of devout people who find their beliefs challenged in even a small way. Nolofinwë said, quite gently: “I know thou art worried for Findekáno —”

“ _Worried?_ ” She took a sudden, lunging step toward him. “Thou art the most obtuse, _stupid_ of men. Thinks't thou the Valar are blind? Dost thou truly not understand their power?”

They stared at one another, loveless, enemies.

“The Valar do not rule here,” he said, shards of ice in his mouth.

“Thou art an arrogant fool to believe that! We live here by their grace, by their laws, and thy son is dangerously close to breaking them. There will be punishment. Open thine eyes.”

“Mother.” Turukáno took her arm. “Come.”

She shook him away. “I go to Ilmarin,” she said. “To breathe cleaner air for a time. Turukáno, arrange it.”

And she would return, as she ever did with more words of 'wisdom' from the Valar that she would repeat by rote to Findekáno, and Nolofinwë as if they were wayward children. It was not the first time she had mentioned punishment, but nowhere in the Laws was it stated what kind of punishment was reserved for 'unnatural' love.

Anairë, like all the Vanyar, was prone to religious hysteria. Living in close proximity to the Valar had infused them with what had become, over the years, insufferable self-righteousness. High King Ingwë physically sat at Manwë's feet. Nolofinwë supposed he must move to attend to his duties, but the duties of the Vanyar seemed to consist almost wholly of worship. There had been a time, when they were first married when Anairë had not felt honour-bound to instruct Nolofinwë, to correct his _laxness_. But that time was gone beyond recall. She appeared to love the Valar more than she had ever loved her husband or children. Living with some-one who brought religion into every topic, and even into the marriage-bed, did not make for a happy household.

Finwë said now, stirring him from sour memories: “But perhaps some caution is advisable.”

“Findekáno is not cautious by nature.” Nolofinwë could not repress a smile. The thought of his first-born could always banish gloom. “It is one of the many reasons I love him. But I understand thee, father, and I agree.”

His father nodded, said nothing. _Too many silences in this family._ Nolofinwë knew he was loved, even as he knew that no-one could outstrip Fëanáro in his father's affections, but Finwë was a man of secrets. He would speak only reluctantly of his life before coming to Valinorë, never of his first wife, and there was a gap in his soul that even his most beloved son could not fill. Nolofinwë could not have explained how he knew it, but he sensed it, edging the words his father would never say.

“I thank thee for wearing the circlet,” Finwë said, after a moment.

Nolofinwë lifted a hand to Fëanáro's creation for his coming-of-age, three flawless blue-white diamonds set in platinum. It had been altered since, as he grew, and was his most treasured possession, though he would never admit it to any-one but himself.

“The dances of this family,” he murmured. Finwë's eyes flicked to his, then back to the Fëanárions. Macalaurë was leaning across Nelyafinwë to say something to Findekáno. His profile was a copy of his fathers, but the familiar smile more tender. A beautiful man, Macalaurë, in every way, and if Nolofinwë was not mistaken...

“I do not see Námo's wing-clipped jail crow.” Fëanáro arrived like a burning wind, a scent of rosewood and dark spices. He saluted his father's cheek with a kiss, then turned those eyes of his on Nolofinwë.  
“Half-brother.” He inclined his head.

Nolofinwë thought of marble, returned the gesture with a brief tilt of his mouth.  
Had it not been for the difficulties attendant upon their meetings, he would have sought Fëanáro out every day. As it was they had to seize or create opportunities. Nolofinwë wondered if it were not the danger, the threat of exposure that Fëanáro flirted with. His doubts were blown away like thistledown when they were together; nothing could even hope to compete with his half-brothers intoxicating presence.

Three times only they had met, yet it seemed there had not been a moment of his life that he had not wanted to get as close to Fëanáro as possible, to climb inside his very flesh, absorb him, be _of_ him. Since that first time, they had not been in public together until now. He had not been certain how he would deal with the situation. His mouth had gone quite dry.

“Melkor was not invited,” their father said, low-voiced. “Thou knowest Arafinwë trusts him but little.”

“A little late to worry about dirtying our hands, is it not?” Fëanáro raised his expressive brows.

Nolofinwë, playing his part, said, “Meaning?”

“Meaning, half-brother, that he has moved among us long enough for the stains of his past to rub off.” Fëanáro's eyes were wide, challenging.

“Speak for thyself.”

“I always do.”

“We were speaking of how good it is to see thine eldest and Nolofinwë's on such close terms.” Finwë stepped in front of the seemingly nascent argument, but his voice was calm. There might have been the flicker of a there-and-gone smile in his eyes. Was he simply glad to see them talking?

“Jealous, Nolofinwë?” Fëanáro taunted, but his eyes laughed.

“I love my children,” he said coolly. “And desire their happiness.”

Fëanáro's dazzling smile came like a punch to the gut. “I think thine eldest will realise his...happiness. Certainly he has excellent taste.” As he glanced over at his sons, the light shimmered in night-black hair. Its waves were tamed tonight, bound in thick braids that uncovered the perfect, fierce beauty of his face. Seeing the teasing in his eyes, Nolofinwë wanted suddenly to laugh, to shatter forever the pattern of duelling that marked their public interactions. He knew Fëanáro would share his laughter, and it would be just they two as the onlookers stared in shock. But matters could never be so simple between them. Nolofinwë no longer believed that his half-brother hated him for being Indis' son, Indis whom had taken a measure of Finwë's love for Fëanáro. She had not. But there _was_ some jealousy in Fëanáro for both of her sons, though for the life of him Nolofinwë could not think why.

 _Stop it,_ he chided, and saw the fabulous eyes glint. He loved these moments of private sharing. It was still a wild thrill to realise that Fëanáro did not hate him that, in fact, he desired him. Hunger swelled his loins. He was grateful for his formal robes.  
“I think,” Fëanáro said then, “I should speak with _my_ eldest.” He kissed his father's cheek again. “I will see thee later.” The last word echoed in Nolofinwë's mind. _Later._ ~

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Fëanáro ~ Fëanor  
> Nolofinwë ~ Fingolfin  
> Arafinwë ~ Finarfin  
> Nelyafinwë ~ Maedhros  
> Findekáno ~ Fingon  
> Turukáno ~ Turgon  
> Irissë ~ Aredhel  
> Macalaurë ~ Maglor  
> 


	11. ~ The Fire of Blue Diamonds ~

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Second of two chapters from Fingolfin's viewpoint. Set in Tirion after Fëanor and Fingolfin became lovers. Politics, tension, incest, (Fëanor/Fingolfin) conversations. Names in Quenya.

 

**~ The Fire of Blue Diamonds ~**

 

~ Later was an age of waiting, of circulating, of listening to his brother bemoan the fact that Fëanáro had attended his feast.

“Thou didst know our father would ask him,” Nolofinwë said. “And what possessed thee to put Nerdanel in that position?”

Arafinwë shot him a look of anger, said in an undervoice. “I left the matter with her. She need not have come. But as for _him,_ he should be publicly shamed into a reconciliation.”

“And should she be so forced? She was the one to leave him.”

“He drove her to it.” His brother sliced a hand across the air. “And what was Fëanáro talking to thee about?”

Nolofinwë shrugged faintly. “He noted Melkor was not here.”

“Thou knowest my feelings.” Arafinwë's fingers tightened on his wine-cup. “There is something too _hungry_ in that one's eyes.”

“Surely the Valar were not wrong to release him?” Nolofinwë could not excise the hint of mockery from his question. The Noldor were not notably pious, but Arafinwë had inherited some of his mother's leanings in that direction.

“Good cannot see the evil in others.”

 _I wonder._ The tales said that the Valar had battled Melkor and his followers when the world was young. They knew what he was capable of, what he had done. The stories were blood-dark, horrifying. And  
Melkor's eyes were indeed disquieting. Anything might live in them, but Arafinwë was right that hunger was one of those things. For what, his dark kingdom on Endorë? Freedom?

“And yet,” he said. “He told us more of the Outer Lands than any-one, even those born there. Even our father.” And it was not only Fëanáro whose ever-restless imagination had been sparked by those tales.

“To what purpose? People speak of leaving, or rather, _returning_ to Endorë, as if they were born there, not here. Return to what? The barbarism we left behind?”

Nolofinwë thought of the potion his father had supplied, alluding to 'celebrations.' He had not elaborated, did not need to, but had warned of its effects. A dangerous potion for a very different world. His brother thought of it as barbaric, Fëanáro would not.

_And I...?_

A world lay waiting, and it was their home. Aman, for all its beauty and richness, offered nothing more than they already had. The challenges here were political or personal; the Noldor turned inward, biting at one another. Nolofinwë imagined wild lands, forests deeper and darker than the Woods of Oromë, great rivers, rough, shaggy mountains, rolling plains, a place to _breathe._ There was no room in Valinorë. The Elves were permitted to roam anywhere, but save for their cities and lands around them, Aman belonged to the Valar.

“Some were born in Endorë,” he replied.

“And few will speak of it,” Arafinwë retorted. “Even our father. If it was so wonderful, why do they not recollect it fondly, and why did so many leave? They left darkness for the Light.”

The darkness of Melkor. But Melkor was here, and penitent...

“Many left, but far more must have remained.”

“The fearful, the timid. Does Fëanáro's ambition afflict thee also?” But he did not wait for an answer. His eyes were fixed on some other point, and were bright with anger, brows drawn down. Nolofinwë turned to follow his regard, and saw Laurëfindë. The young man seemed to have grown since his own coming-of-age not so long ago. He was already tall and startlingly beautiful, molten hair bright as Laurelin.

If he had not seen Findekáno's love for Nelyafinwë grow uncontrollably into desire, had he not long admitted his own attraction to Fëanáro, he would, perhaps, have viewed Laurëfindë's conversation with Ektello as nothing more or less than close friendship. But he was not innocent. He recognised the signs of flirtation, the brief touches, the smiles, the closeness of gold and raven head.

He said, answering his brother's question, “Aman offers us nothing any-more,” and walked across to the young men. Their heads rose as he approached and took their arms, walking with them out of Arafinwë's sight. He could not prevent the clash between father and son he knew would come, only delay it. His brother had always resented advice concerning his family, whom did not? and for all his adherence to the Laws, saw his son's attraction to Ektello as clearly as Nolofinwë saw Findekáno's for Nelyafinwë.

“Uncle,” Laurëfindë greeted. Ektello laid hand on breast and bowed. His father, Ilimmor, was one of Nolofinwë's lords.  
Laurëfindë's eyes, a startling ice-blue, flicked toward his father. Colour flew like a pennon across his high-boned cheeks. There was a look of rebellion in the mouth gone taut. Nolofinwë recognised it from his own son, before Findekáno understood he was supported and loved no matter where his heart lead him.

As a servant proffered a tray of wine, they took glasses and walked to one of the garden's upper tiers, a bower of jasmin and roses. A long pool dimpled under the plash of three fountains, and complex trellises shielded the eye from the lower gardens. A few other guests had made their way here, but seeing Nolofinwë, they drifted away. He took a seat. It was shadowed here, the inner palace walls, gleaming, rose high above, graceful sweeps of incised marble. Wind harps played.

“How goes the training for the Harvest Games?” he asked them both. “What dost thou compete in?”

“Wrestling,” they answered together. “Bare-hand combat.”

“And sparring this year,” Ektello said, with a searching look under long lashes. “Swords, my Lord. Thou hast heard?”

Nolofinwë nodded. His father had sanctioned it as an event this year after receiving a large number of petitions for it to be included. Spear-throwing, archery and wrestling had always been competitive sports among the Noldor, but never sword-fighting, until now. Finwë had a sword that he had carried from the Outer Lands. It was clearly of a more ancient time, fashioned of bronze, and for a long time the only one Nolofinwë laid eyes on. There was no need for swords in Aman. It was only in recent years that the smiths of the Noldor had begun to forge blades, and these were not bronze, but blued steel.

There was a touch of thunder beyond the horizon, a mutter in the blood, murmurs of Endorë, wild, perhaps dangerous. But there was more than that. Edges were not only honed on weapons but on faces and hearts and tongues. Nolofinwë was conscious of a restlessness in himself, as if he had worn a set of clothes so long that they irritated him. The Noldor had bent their minds to knowledge and mined it like the earth. They had outgrown Valinorë and Nolofinwë, only a fool for one man, knew that if Melkor's words had planted the seed, Fëanáro's passion drew it forth from the fertile earth.

Nolofinwë had learned sword craft from his father. Finwë had not refused his request, not even questioned it, which surprised him until he guessed that his father must have also trained Fëanáro. Nolofinwë, responsible for his growing House, trained others: his lords, his sons, his daughter. Later, Eonwë came to hone their skills. The Noldor were preparing, although in those early days Nolofinwë could not have said for what. Change was come to Tirion. Perhaps Fëanáro's birth made it inevitable. Something wild had entered Valinorë with him, and would not be contained.

Nolofinwë only knew second-hand what it had been like before, but by the time he was grown to manhood factions were beginning to form. Now, lords of great Houses wore their emblems abroad, marking them as followers of Fëanáro, of Nolofinwë, Arafinwë or their sons, and all were proud.

“The Lord Eonwë will watch for three strikes,” Laurëfindë said.

It was still some time to the games, and Nolofinwë wondered how many others would compete in this event. A great many, if the petitions were any indication. It would not be appropriate for him to enter, although he would have enjoyed the challenge. His opponent would be almost bound to let him win. It would be exhilarating to spar with some-one who did not.

“I will be most interested to watch,” he smiled. Laurëfindë stared at him. Sudden vulnerability shivered under the fine bones of his face.  
“I thank thee. Father has said he will not. He does not approve, though all my brothers and Artanis will compete.”

Arafinwë was as accomplished with the sword as most. Perhaps he did not approve, but still he should have supported his children.

“I do not believe he will attend the games at all,” Laurëfindë added. “He says they have become enmeshed with politics, and their spirit lost.”

“He is not altogether wrong.” Nolofinwë laid a hand on his shoulder. “Politics permeates everything these days. The games have not been spared, I am afraid. But I will be there. What of thy father, Ektello?”

“He will come if thou art there, my Lord.” But there was a faint crease between Ektello's black brows.

“Uncle,” Laurëfindë began. He hesitated. His jaw set. He flung back his golden head as if meeting an enemy. His eyes were hard, fierce. “Thou...lovest Findekáno.”

Nolofinwë tightened his grip on the hard young shoulder. “Of course.”

“Wouldst thou love him whatever he did, even were it deemed...wrong by the Laws?” A blush mantled his features and Ektello's both, but their eyes, blue and ice-grey met his own. Nolofinwë knew how lonely it was, how frightening, to admit attraction to one's own sex in a world that did not allow for such desires. There was nowhere to turn, no explanations, just the blank, stony face of the Laws that proclaimed it sin, and offered no explanation.

_Be careful, brother, because this one will not bow his head._

“My love for Findekáno is greater than any law.” Nolofinwë leaned to kiss his brow. “I am here, if thou needest me,” he promised. “for both of thee.”

Whatever words piled behind their teeth waiting to be spoken were forced back by stern mouths, and Nolofinwë did not feel he had the right to press them. They were young, probably as uncertain as he had been. He doubted it had gone far between them, exploratory kisses perhaps, forbidden and fugitive touches. He would have seen somewhat else in their eyes had they slaked their thirst in one another. It was in his own when he looked in a mirror. But they gave their thanks, and Laurëfindë looked both surprised and grateful. What had his father said to him? Nolofinwë wondered with a flare of anger. And yet, was it for him to interfere? He well knew how his brother would view his acceptance of Laurëfindë's 'unlawful' appetites. Accusations would fly, coming too near his own secret. But he could imagine how Findekáno might have felt if warned away from Nelyafinwë, and Laurëfindë was as yet too young to confront his father. He needed, and must have, support.

He left them as others wandered into the garden. Walking down to the next tier, his eyes swept the gathering for Fëanáro, the unearthly light of the Silmarilli above equally unearthly eyes. He did not see him; he saw, as silence fell, the entrance of Manwë and Varda in a mist of light and glitter.

This was unanticipated. The Valar rarely descended to Tirion. The last time had been Arafinwë's coming-of-age. He felt his eyes narrow as men and women went down on one knee. But not many of them. Finwë inclined his head, but the straight line of his shoulders was a rebuff. The Fëanárions did not even do that, lounging in their seats with indolent, offensive grace. Nolofinwë stared at Findekáno, whom had slipped into a seat next to Nelyafinwë. He looked up, but did not otherwise react. _Good._ Anairë plummetted like a shot bird to the ground. Turukáno merely bowed his head. _Well enough._ His younger son did not lack pride.

The Valar walked with ponderous grace to Arafinwë, whom had slipped to one knee, much to Nolofinwë's irritation. They did not speak, forcing him to remain in that pose.

 _Too many people have forgotten the Valar are not gods,_ Fëanáro had said, on their last meeting.

It struck Nolofinwë that the Vanyar strove to emulate these two Powers both in dress and bearing. Both had near-white hair and flesh, were beautiful, but it was the beauty of an inanimate and untouchable object. The Valar were diminished by the flashing fire in the eyes of the Noldor, the flit of expressions across sculpted faces, their haughty, care-for-nobody bearing.

 _Interesting,_ came a mind-voice that was not memory. He turned his head to see, not four paces away, Fëanáro. From this elevation they could look down upon the Valar. It was an effect not lost on his sons, by their smiles, nor on Nolofinwë, and certainly not on Manwë and Varda.

 _They have lost their grip on father, if they ever had one. They have none on me. Thou wert never pious, and now —_ A swift, searing glance. _So they turn their attention to Arafinwë. If father is not careful he will lose his youngest._

With enormous effort, Nolofinwë looked away, moved to the edge of a pergola, traced the carved flowers mock-idly.

_I hope that is not true._

_These two,_ Fëanor continued. _These two and Námo especially do not want us to leave. Why would they? Look what we have done for them, and for naught. Unwaged servants._

 _They did teach us._ He thought of the beauty and deadliness of the swords he himself had fashioned that stood, unused as yet, in his armoury.

_Nothing we could not have learned for ourselves. We have amply repaid them. And these two taught us naught._

Both statements were true. Manwë and Varda expected worship but gave nothing back, neither wisdom nor skill, and there was not one dwelling of the Powers that was not enriched by the art and craftsmanship of the Noldor.

The Valar laid their hands upon Arafinwë's shoulders in a blessing that looked overly dramatic. Arafinwë, flushed with pride, escorted them to his table, where they sat, chins lifted, but if they expected to grant an audience here they were swiftly disabused. Few approached them. Their eyes lifted to the upper garden. Fëanáro looked away, quite deliberately, but Nolofinwë did not, saw the cold anger in their eyes. He was reminded that they and Melkor were kin. There was an unfamiliar scent on the air that memory hunted for and found: the agelong ice of the high Pelori.

 _Would they try and stop us?_ he wondered. _If we wanted to leave._

Fëanáro began to walk down the tiers. _Perhaps._ His tone was disinterested, as if the Valar's power held no more fear for him than a brief-burning cinder.

~~~

The shadows were flung long and grey with the mingling of the lights, and the palace was as quiet as it ever became. Nolofinwë, his formal robes discarded for breeches and shirt, went light-footed down one of the smaller stairways. He paused to look out at the garden. The guests had gone, the remains of the feast cleared away. From here he could see the alcove where he had sat with Laurëfindë and Ektello. Almost he expected to see them, but the flash of colour that caught his eye was not gold, but bright copper, vivid as blood in the nacreous light.

Nelyafinwë had reached the topmost step and his face, set like a pearl in the loose mane of brilliant hair, shocked Nolofinwë with its unguarded hunger. There was a movement, a rush, a swirl of jet, and his son crashed almost violently into Maitimo. Their kiss could be felt from where Nolofinwë stood, cutting through the placid air like fire.

_And so the siege is broken._

What had changed for Nelyafinwë that he now threw his defences aside? Fëanáro had said he would speak to him. If he had, his arguments had been persuasive.

After an incandescent moment, Findekáno drew Nelyafinwë out of view. They would go somewhere, Nelyafinwë's chambers most likely. The Fëanárions would actively collude to support the relationship, or at least turn a blind eye. Their bonds went that deep, were that close. Nolofinwë found himself blessing his son and nephew even as his heart misgave him. His wife was right that there more was at stake than Findekáno's happiness, but Nolofinwë could not think only of status or politics where his son was concerned. If Nelyafinwë and Findekáno were to be full lovers, theirs would be a life of secrecy, of snatched moments and, perhaps, guilt. _Unless we leave._

A door to one of the servants passages opened as he passed the landing. He took no notice until a hand closed about his arm. Startled, he spun round.

Fëanáro's fingers slid to his, and pulled. They ran down the lamp-lit corridor, passed closed doors. No servants were in sight; they too would be resting. A twirl of steps, and then a locked door. Fëanáro produced a key, unlocked it, closed it behind him, then pushed Nolofinwë back against the wood.

Their kiss was as ravenous and Nelyafinwë's and Findekáno's had been. Nolofinwë still found it almost impossible to believe that Fëanáro wanted him. He was cast back into the dreams of adolescence, when just a far-off glimpse of his elder brother would ravage his nerves, set a painful ache in his loins. His hands sank through silken masses of hair, dug into hard muscle. Fëanáro's fingers echoed his.

“I wanted to take thee at the feast,” he whispered, as they came apart, Nolofinwë was drunk on the kiss, the closeness, the body in his grasp. “Thy face, like marble, so proud, so beautiful. I wanted to shatter the mask. How _dare_ thou look thus when I am close?” He was teasing, laughing, and they were running again, through the chamber that lead to Miriel's garden, where no-one ever came but they and the birds. They went down into sweet grass, a scatter of flowers.

“So,” Nolofinwë murmured. “Is it not shattered now?”

“Not enough.”

They were undressing one another in a desperate hurry.

“Lie down,” Fëanáro commanded. “I want to see thee come undone. I hope thou hast prepared thyself, my beauty.”

“Yes.” His cock jutted, rigid, and Fëanáro bent in a cascade of black hair, took it in his mouth. Nolofinwë had not expected that and arched, gasping, as his half-brother swallowed against it, deep in his throat, sucked it to the tip, tongue licking, swirling. Burning stars exploded in his mind. Fëanáro drew back, a cat-smile on his mouth.

“Ah yes,” he murmured. “And now, I am going to watch thee.”

Nolofinwë swore as he was breached, wanting it, wanting all of Fëanáro and still not prepared for the sensation of being possessed in this way. But _Eru_ there was a terrible glory to it.

“Look at me.”

He opened his eyes, took himself in hand as Fëanáro drew almost out, plunged in again, the rhythm breaking him, pieces of his soul falling. He groaned against Fëanáro's lips, then went rigid as pleasure took fire within him.

“Yes, come undone, my beauty. _Look at me._ ”

He looked, could not look away, pushed higher and higher in the upwelling storm-surge. Nothing existed by Fëanáro inside him, owning him, sinking through his skin, into his bones, his blood. This was deeper than sex, burned pleasure into an dim, ashy remembrance.

“Harder,” he said, and then cursed through his moans. “Damn thee. Take me harder.”

“Say my name,” came a smile from the heart of stars.

“ _Fëanáro,_ ” he hissed. “I want thee. I want all of thee.” _Fëanáro. My half-brother, my lover, inside me, flesh searing my flesh, the most magnificent of sins. Let us burn._

Pain bled into ecstasy. He thought he could bear no more of this terrifying sensation, striving for release, every nerve afire as Fëanáro thrust so deep, so hard, huge, filling him. He fell into profound and beautiful agony, soul and flesh together, throbbing, blinded. Orgasm racked him again and again.

Still inside him, Fëanáro said, his voice gone ragged: “Come back, my beauty. Look at me.”

Nolofinwë looked, fascinated, gave him a slow smile.

“Ah, thou doth come undone superbly.” He withdrew, and their limbs tangled, langorous, the musky scent of sex on damp flesh.

“Thou wert going to laugh, earlier.” He sifted Nolofinwë's hair through elegant fingers.

“'He has excellent taste',” Nolofinwë quoted, and they did laugh together, brows touching.

“He does,” Fëanáro drew back to trace his lips. “I love to see thee laugh,”  
he commented unexpectedly. “But even more like this, thine eyes softened by sex.”

“I am too old to blush.” Nolofinwë dissembled, took one finger in his mouth.

“I could make thee blush with one look.”

He could.

“So thou art to visit Ingwë?” Amusement crinkled his eyes. “Thou knowest why, of course?”

Nolofinwë bit the finger's pad and released it. “I wondered — ”

“They know. The Valar. They did not come here for Arafinwë, but to warn us. Didst thou not scent their threat?”

“ _Scent_ it?” He remembered the strange smell of cold. Fëanáro nodded.  
“There are places in the Pelori where the light of the trees has never reached since the mountains rose from the ocean. The ice is old, rotted. Treacherous. Those two reek of it. The Vanyar are drugged by attar, only half-alive. Too close to _see._ Almost I feel sorry for them.”

“Anairë told me the Valar rule, that I was a fool to think otherwise, that there is punishment for such as we law-breakers. Yet she was speaking of Findekáno.”

His half-brother's eyes fractured light. “Anairë is Vanya. Their heads are stuffed with holiness, or so they would name it. As for the Valar, I would like to see how far they dare to go.” The words were a threat. “They have no right to lay down any laws save for themselves.” He sat up, pushing back tousled hair with both hands. “What ugly mind would condemn love?”

“One whom has never known it,” Nolofinwë said slowly.

Fëanor kissed him fast, fiery. “Thou hast it aright.”

“Did they not love Eru, then?”

“So much they left him.” He stared into nothing for a moment, or perhaps into the future. “They loved the power they could have on Arda more. There is nothing to choose between Manwë and his cadre and Melkor, save Melkor was honest in his desires, did not mind getting his hands dirty. More and more people speak of leaving. Soon. I would have us united. I would not leave one Noldo here. Not even thy brother.” With a twist of his mouth, half-amused, half dangerous. “He pushes me, but he does not know me.”

Nolofinwë sat up, regarded him. “He wants to provoke a response,” he said, discovering the reasons for Aranfwë's actions even as he spoke. “Any notice is better than nothing, as I should know. It truly did not bother thee, then?”

Fëanáro lifted one hand to his cheek. “Why would it? I was angry at Nerdanel once, but it was the end. Endings are messy. My sons are still fond of her, and I would never prevent them from visiting her. But they live with _me._ ”  
The possessiveness was there in a flash of biting white teeth. But whatever Fëanáro was, he was not petty. Arafinwë had erred thinking he was.  
“That does not mean I will _forget_ his gambit, that he sought to discompose me.”

“Thou wilt, if thou wouldst have him follow thee.”

“He will not follow me, but he will follow _thee._ ”

“Not if he knew about us,” Nolofinwë said against his mouth.

“Oh, he suspects... _something._ He is not stupid.”

The kiss turned savage, desire swelled again in Nolofinwë's loins. Fëanáro set a hunger in him that could never be slaked. He never wanted it to end, and felt in his soul that it never would. This was not an attraction that could be worn away by familiarity. The closer he got, the more he found to enthrall him. To love.

“Thy brother seeks validation.”

_Yes, I think he does._

“And Manwë knows it. He is reeling him in like a fish. Thou shouldst seek to cut the line. Thou art his elder. He looks up to thee still, whatever his suspicions.”

“He is becoming bitter. Is it my fault then?” Nolofinwë slid his fingers into that lion's mane of jet hair. “He was not always like this,” he said. “He was a sweet boy. He dreamed of being...” He stopped. Fëanáro prompted him. “Of being?”

“A wise king.” He shifted. “Just a child's dream.”

“I wonder. And thou, didst thou dream of being a king?”

Nolofinwë smiled wryly. “I dreamed of being a hero that thou wouldst admire. A warrior such as Eonwë. I could never see Valinorë giving me that opportunity, and still I dreamed.”

Fëanáro's coaxing smile fell away. He ran a hand up Nolofinwë's arm.  
“Hence thy swordsmanship?”

“Yes, perhaps. Yes.” He shivered under the touch. “And this year, sword-fighting is to become an event in the games.”

“So I have heard, and well-attended, I doubt not.”

“I will not enter.”

“For Eru's sake, why?”

He lifted his shoulders. “Being a prince has its disadvantages. People allow me to win.”

Fëanáro threw back his head and shouted with laughter, then seized Nolofinwë's face in his hands and kissed him until both were panting.  
“Thou doth win because thou art the better swordsman,” he said at last. “Just as I win for the same reason, though my sons are coming close. I have trained longer, and I do not adhere to Eonwë's chivalric rules. There are no rules in war.”

“Now thou speakest of war as if it were fact.”

“I prepare my mind for the possibility. Father fought, before he made the journey. Dark things, demons, misshapen creatures. We do not know what awaits us in Endorë.” He rose, strolled to a plum tree and picked fruit, brought it back to where they sat. The flesh was ripe to bursting, almost as luscious as his mouth. When they kissed again, the juice was rich on their tongues.

“They would banish us, an they knew.” Nolofinwë slid a hand between their lips. “And thou art sure they do. So why this roundaboutation?”

 

 

“Banish us? They have no right. Would they usurp our father's prerogative?” He spoke against Nolofinwë's palm. Above it his eyes were diamond fire. “Ah, thou knowest why they play this like shy virgins. They think their mouths would wither if they mentioned _sex._ ” He whispered the last word, and laughed. “Too prim, beauty. Is Eru prim? I think not. The world, what we have yet seen of it, is to wondrous to be the work of a narrow mind. And the most wondrous creation of all? The human body.” He sat there, gorgeous, distracting. “We are Ilúvatar's children. The Valar had no hand in us. They have no rights over us.”

“While we live in their land, they think they do. And I am concerned for our sons. If they should attempt to punish them —”

“No-one will harm our sons.” Fëanáro drew back a little, and Nolofinwë though at that moment there was more danger in him than in all the Powers. “This I vow: if they touch me or mine, I will see them _fall._ ” Coming from any-one else it would have sounded insane. From Fëanáro it was a promise. Nolofinwë reached to grip his hands. “And I will be with thee.”

The hardness gentled. Their fingers interlaced. “I know. But I do not believe they will move against us. They cannot show their teeth without risking open rebellion. The Teleri were reluctant comers at best. Aman could lose two-thirds of its population if the Valar unveiled themselves as gaolers. They will mouth words, try to instil guilt, trap thy brother, but no more. Not yet.” He paused, then said almost dreamily: “Melkor offered to make me the greatest king in all the Ages of the world, if I would own him as mine overlord and god.”

“ _What?_ ” Nolofinwë jerked back.  
Fëanáro's eyes were lowered, a provocative smile bent his mouth. He shook his head, looked up. “He knows me, but not as well as he would like. I have a theory about him.”

“Yes? What?”

“When I first went into the mines, when I was young, I asked father to leave me at the end of one tunnel for a while before coming out. I shuttered the lamps so there was no light. It was the first time I had been in the dark, without the light of the Trees.”

Nolofinwë nodded. “Darkness is a shock.”

“But it should not be. It is natural. The Unbegotten knew it, the Elves of Endorë must know it.” As he talked, his fingers braided sheaves of Nolofinwë's hair and unravelled them again. “I closed my eyes to intensify the darkess, felt the walls, the rock, the unmined gems. I stood and let the darkness surround me. At first it was indeed a shock, but I made myself stand there. When I came out, the light seemed even brighter. I was glad of it, I _appreciated_ it.”

Nolofinwë stared at him. “I see,” he said. “So Melkor is...darkness?”

Fëanáro smiled, took his chin in one hand. “I love the way thy mind follows mine. Yes. Melkor is more than his kindred here. He is an integral part of the world, I think. Light is nothing without darkness, and darkness is not in itself wrong. There are bats in the mines that can fly through them without light to guide them. Valinorë is a diet of light and honey. We will never truly know what we are without something to hone us as a sword-edge is honed. We need the freedom of Middle-earth, the dark and the light, the sweet and the bitter, the _balance._ ”

“I know.” Nolofinwë looked unblinking into his eyes. “That is our restlessness, even though it took Melkor to stir it. It is in our blood, and we would have left with or without his words. But he offered thee a kingdom; that means he wishes to escape.”

“I do not think he is meant to be caged any-more than we. What he was, once...” His brows drew down. “But three Ages, it is said, he was imprisoned in Námo's halls. What would that do to me, or to thee? Of course he wants to escape.”

“But what could the Valar do with him save cast him into prison? The tales say he broke the world, captured and tortured Elves.”

The frown lingered. “If he was not meant to be part of the world,” Fëanáro shaped his words carefully. “Then I do not think Eru would have let him into it.”

“Then thou art thinking all of it was supposed to happen?” Nolofinwë asked. “All the ruin, the terror?”

“I am wondering if Melkor is trapped in another prison, and ever has been; the prison of what he is. Discordance.”

They were silent. A bird sang somewhere, untroubled. Nolofinwë tightened his shoulders against a phantom breath of cold that touched his back.

“Be careful,” he said at last.

“I care naught for what Melkor wants.” His brother shrugged. “I do not know how he thinks he can leave. The Valar would be on his trail like hounds. He is a prisoner on parole, and mad, of course. Never mind Melkor. I am thinking about us, our people.”

“And so am I. But I would not willingly lead them into danger.”

“Life is danger, beauty, uncertainty challenge. This — ” He swept a hand. “This is not living. This is _existing_. This — ” His mouth came down on Nolofinwë's. “ _This_ is living.”

Nolofinwë came out of it with a wrench. “And even did we walk upon Endorë, living by our own laws, _this_ would yet be forbidden. If it were just us...but we have a duty to those who follow us.”

“None of my sons or my lords would leave me,” Fëanáro asserted with the certainty of a man whom doubts could not touch. “Even if they knew. And I care naught for the laws. This is _right._ For thee and I, this is _right._ ”

 _Ah, Eru, it was, it was, but..._ “I verily believe thy sons would remain with thee,” he said. “And thy followers. Because they are _like_ thee. But my own folk? I love them. They are proud, and they have courage, I know, though it has never been tested. But they see the face thou seest, Fëanáro, when we meet in public, the face I give the world. The face I must show.” He did not say “Because of thee, because of us.” He did not need to.

His half-brother's eyes melted over him like liquid fire, but there a tenderness in them that pulled Nolofinwë's heart out of his breast. He wanted Fëanáro's love, but he told himself that this storm between them was desire, and that was enough. If it lasted forever, in secret it would be enough. _I do not want much,_ he mocked himself. _Only forever._ It was a necessary lie so that he would not hope for the impossible, be crushed when he did not receive it..

Fëanáro said, “Ah, yes. Marble, strong and beautiful, a perfect mask. But the real Nolofinwë is the fire of blue diamonds. And they see that too.” He drew a thumb over Nolofinwë's lips. “I would have thee sitting beside me, our people free, discovering the world we should never have left.”

“And if that were possible? Would thine interest in me not wane?”

“And here was I thinking thou wert one of the few who understood me.” He pushed his hands deep into Nolofinwë's hair, drew him back into the kiss that burned him to the core, slew reason and vanquished guilt. “I want the _best._ And thou art that. Thou wilt be a hero, my Nolofinwë, thy name shall ring through the Earth. It is written in those beautiful eyes.” They sank down on the green, green grass.

 _And what is written in thine eyes, my brother, my lover?_ he thought before he lost himself in the wild violence of passion. _Fire._

~~~

_I will break them,_ vowed the hidden watcher, in a fog of icy disgust. _Love will become jealousy and hate. I will tear them apart, and curse their souls into darkness. There will be grief and pain, and tears unnumbered. I will set madness in Fëanáro's mind, and doom will crown the Noldor until their very name is gone into the dust of Time._

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Fëanáro ~ Fëanor  
> Nolofinwë ~ Fingolfin  
> Arafinwë ~ Finarfin  
> Nelyafinwë ~ Maedhros  
> Findekáno ~ Fingon  
> Turukáno ~ Turgon  
> Irissë ~ Aredhel  
> Macalaurë ~ Maglor  
> Laurëfindë ~ Glorfindel  
> Ektello ~ Ecthelion  
> Námo ~ Mandos.  
> Endorë ~ Middle-earth.  
> Melkor ~ Morgoth


	12. Vanimórë art.

Vanimórë in Barad-dûr or Sud Sicanna.

 

[](http://tinypic.com?ref=15mbpxu)

 

Commission by Insant. [Downsized considerably – original image by Insant on her DA Account here.](http://insant.deviantart.com/art/Vanimore-579115513)


	13. Vanimórë and Maglor. Art. (Completely SFW)

  
  
[](http://tinypic.com?ref=34ytod3)

  
Within his son, Sauron's spirit smiled with amusement.

''My father." Vanimórë threw back his head and laughed without humor. "Shall we just say that he did not love me. I would have felt no guilt if he had. And thou feelest guilt because Fëanor wants thee. That is almost...funny to me. But then, I have a strange sense of humor. And I must thank thee for leaving New Cuiviénen. I cannot enter and I would not have known whom had taken Elgalad. ''

Maglor's heart plunged. ''Ah, no...'' Of course, his leaving the protection of the haven allowed Vanimórë to see his mind.  
''I came because I needed to face thee,'' he cried. ''My father thinks me trapped in my past, by memories, by madness...he wanted to make me live, heal me...''

Vanimórë looked at him, unblinkingly. ''He is right. And I wager when Fëanor knows what truly happened in Barad-dûr I will not be the only one who swears an Oath. Thy father does have a talent for making enemies of Powers, does he not?''  
The rage melted from his eyes, they gleamed as he tilted his head, and a half-smile lifted one corner of his mouth.  
''So, thou didst come to confront thy demons, Maglor Fëanorion. Behold me.'' He leaned back against the table, hands spread each side.  
'' _Confront me._ '' ~

[Dark Blood. Chapter 11. Blood Oath.](http://archiveofourown.org/works/17780/chapters/30503)

 

Art commission by Liloujay.  
[Art by Liloujay.](http://liloujaysketches.tumblr.com/)

When I mention Elves having clouds of hair, I am not even half-way exaggerating!


	14. Edenel. (OC. Twin of Finwë) Art

Edenel is Finwë's twin, one of the Elves captured in ancient times and taken to Utumno. The torments he endured did not break him, but made him _other_ , changing him. Those who were changed in this way after called themselves the _Ithiledhil_ , ever drawn to their people but different, apart. They settled in the Greenwood before Oropher came.  


[](http://tinypic.com?ref=2i0ufzo)

 

[Commission by Insant.](http://insant.deviantart.com/art/Edenel-526707780)


	15. ~ Slave ~

Vanimórë in Barad-dûr. Dark prince, Slave of Sauron

 

[](http://tinypic.com?ref=sfz887)

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> [Commission by Venlian. Click for full size ](http://venlian.deviantart.com/art/Dark-Prince-585969395)


	16. ~ Vanimórë ~

Vanimórë in a reflective or pensive mood.

[](http://tinypic.com?ref=atvsle)

[Commission by LAS-T](http://las-t.deviantart.com/)


	17. ~ Fëanor and Fingolfin: Reunion ~ (Commissioned Art)

In Magnificat I when they met after rebirth, Fëanor and Fingolfin were naked as the day they were born, but I asked for clothes, as I love the details Venlian adds.

[](http://tinypic.com?ref=2rohzk7)

 

[Venlian: Fëanor and Fingolfin: Reunion.](http://www.deviantart.com/art/Feanor-and-Fingolfin-Reunion-610344156)

HD Large:  
[Venlian: Fëanor and Fingolfin: Reunion.](https://s-media-cache-ak0.pinimg.com/originals/34/ab/3e/34ab3e2b6731f4e4b6b783196badee7b.jpg)


	18. ~ Tindómion Maglorion Fëanorion ~

Tindómion Maglorion Fëanorion.

The commission was Tindómion and Gil-galad by Insant, although Gil-galad did not turn out the way I hoped. Tindómion did, so I cropped the image of him alone.

 

 

[](http://tinypic.com?ref=2j1vjmq)

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Original image here:
> 
> http://www.deviantart.com/art/2231111121-624880435


	19. ~ Young Vanimórë ~

Young Vanimórë in Angband. He would be (in human years, about 18 years old)

Commission by Omupied.  
http://omupied.deviantart.com/

  
[](http://tinypic.com?ref=2q2h36v)

  



	20. ~ Vanimórë ~ Older

Vanimórë ~ an older version of the previous drawing. He is older, harder, now. He's killed his sister to save her from Morgoth, been taken by Morgoth, and has come to his maturity in Angband.

  
[](http://tinypic.com?ref=2d109w0)

 

Commission by Omupied.

http://omupied.deviantart.com/


	21. ~ Gil-galad and Tindómion ~

A wonderful gift from G.M. Kaye  
Gil-galad and Tindómion in Lindon, in the earliest days of their relationship

[](http://tinypic.com?ref=nyae6u)

 

http://g-m-kaye.tumblr.com/


	22. ~ Sauron and Vanimórë ~

Sauron and Vanimórë. Possibly around the time Sauron was 'Annatar' in Ost-in-Edhil.

[](http://tinypic.com?ref=160yomd)

Commission by: http://anastasiyacemetery.deviantart.com/


	23. ~ Tindómion Maglorion Fëanorion ~

Commission by Omupied 

http://omupied.deviantart.com/

 

[](http://tinypic.com?ref=1o6dsm)


	24. ~ I Killed Her ~ (Commissioned art)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Commission by Venlian
> 
> http://venlian.deviantart.com/art/Amethyst-Eyes-652862703

I think this was how Vanimórë looked at Sauron in Angband, when he had just (mercifully) killed his sister, (or believed he had) and Sauron walked into the room. 

 

[](http://tinypic.com?ref=nyy9lg)

”Dost thou trust me, Vanya?” he whispered, resting his brow against hers.  
Do not think, do not think!

”I do, thou knowest I do,” she reassured him softly not adding, for he knew, that he was the only one she loved. He was the only brightness in her life.

”Vanya,” he said, his throat full of hot coals. ”I love thee. My sister. My life. My light.”

The movement was so swift he knew she felt nothing. He knew because he felt the bond which so closely tied their souls snap instantly, snuff out like a candle as he took her head in his hands – and broke her neck.

She was gone, falling bonelessly against him, hair flooding to the floor, the gentle music of the gemstones tinkling like rain through the harsh sound of his breathing. He dropped to his knees, cradling her in his arms.

”My dear love…” He could not breathe, could not see, felt the burning flood of tears over his cheeks. Hollowness yawned like a wound within him, flaying his soul open to agony. ”I had to…”

The door opened. Pride and despair stopped his tears as if he ran them into a wall.

Dark Prince. Chapter II ~ To See Death As A Gift.


	25. ~ Memories of Gil-galad ~ (Tindómion) art

  
  


[](http://s350.photobucket.com/user/spiced_wine1/media/1aImladrisTIN_zpsd9g4n6x9.jpg.html)  


One evening in Imladris, Tindómion thinks of Gil-galad.

Commission by Insant  
http://insant.deviantart.com/


	26. Vanimórë ~ Warlord ~ Art

  
  
[](http://s350.photobucket.com/user/spiced_wine1/media/Van_zpskznwgfa1.jpg.html)  
  
  
  
Commission by 

http://zeilyan.deviantart.com/


	27. Dark God

Artwork by the brilliant Kaprriss who will shortly be creating another of Vanimórë and Sauron. 

[](http://tinypic.com?ref=2n8scoo)

 

https://kaprriss.deviantart.com/art/Vanimore-704067540


	28. Father And Son

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Commissioned Art

Sauron and Vanimórë 

Kaprriss is a lovely artist. On Deviant Art, Ziggy said Vanimórë had a 'simmering fury' in his eyes, and I do think he does. 

 

[](http://tinypic.com?ref=35n23k7)

https://kaprriss.deviantart.com/art/Vanimore-and-Sauron-706972385


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